


On the Other Side

by smallsteps32



Series: The Other Side [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bad day for Douglas Richardson, and a flight gone awry, events take a turn for the stranger as the crew find themself in an unbelievable situation, and learn just how much one small change could affect their lives. One thing's for sure, they are never letting Carolyn accept another mysterious booking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has been posted already on ff.net, but I thought that it was worth posting here, as I've just got an account, and this is the best fic I've written so far  
> I hope everyone enjoys it

For all the sardonic comments and blasé half-smiles, today was _not_ a good day for Douglas Richardson.

Granted, it wasn’t _awful_ ; he knew he couldn’t pretend to himself that he wouldn’t have been _even more_ unhappy had he spent the week trawling the Midlands in a van, or having to add up the month’s accounts for MJN, but compared to his usual drudgery, today was at the bottom of the ratings list.

Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed so bad if he had gone to sleep at a sensible time the night before; but his daughter had asked him to work out how to use a ‘revision site’ (as her mother was useless, she had complained down the phone – ‘ _just email me with the instructions, I don’t have time to work it out, Kelly and Susan need help with their costumes for tomorrow)_ , and he couldn’t _possibly_ have let her down by turning in before he had sent her not only instructions, but her own registration details _and_ completed timetable.

And then after only three hours in bed (at least one of which spent tossing and turning – he shouldn’t have had that coffee) his phone alarm had chimed cheerfully, breaking into monotonous song to inform him that Martin Crieff had texted. It was a terrible habit the Captain had got into, texting to wake him up, to make sure that his First Officer would have no excuse for arriving late at the airfield.

And arrive on time he had; only to find Carolyn in a foul mood, storming about with Arthur at her heels. It appeared that the client they were flying for today (cargo _thank the lord)_ had dropped off the hefty box without staying to sign any forms, just paid the money and left a destination.

Douglas rubbed his hands over his eyes, pressing in and relishing the fleeting moment of bliss before it became uncomfortable. Carolyn was bound to re-enter the porta-cabin at some point, and save for the sound of Martin humming under his breath, and the pen dragging across the flight plans he was writing up, the stillness was almost relaxing.

He stretched out on the ratty sofa, tucked neatly beside his own desk, across the room from Martin’s obsessively organised workspace and Arthur’s _corner_ , (which after many an ‘debate’ was allowed to home the carry-heater, as ‘Douglas can’t have _all_ the best bits of the office’). There was an audible clicking as the joints in his knees realigned, and Douglas let out a sigh of exhausted satisfaction, before opening his eyes to survey the events around him.

As he had thought (although he hadn’t been _sure_ ) Arthur had left with Carolyn to do whatever it was that she did before bundling them onto GERTI and sending them on their merry way.

That just left Martin, and although he wasn’t a particularly stunning specimen to observe, one never knew when he’d realise he was being watched and reflexively do something deliciously mock worthy. From his horizontal angle, Douglas had to peer across the room, but for his effort he was given a half-decent view of the Captain, tucked up primly in his uniform, hat placed carefully in its appointed place beside his left elbow.

Open on the desk was a file from the DIY shelving unit he had bribed Douglas into helping him construct, and the necessary papers for the flight plan were laid out across the width of the desk. Martin’s hand swept jauntily across them, jotting in details, and Douglas watched with bemusement as the man’s contented expression never slipped as his eyes followed the pen, and a chipper tune slipped unbidden from his lips.

It never ceased to amaze him how anyone could take such genuine pleasure from paperwork, but Martin just ploughed past any comments and remarks (although his expression would storm over stubbornly after such remarks). Given how grudging he had been to wake up that morning, Douglas had almost made one such remark in recompense for the uninvited wake-up, but had decided at the last second that a happy Martin would make for a pleasant flight, and perhaps even some entertaining games.

If nothing else, Douglas wouldn’t have to bribe him with the opportunity to create his own games; there were only so many rounds of ‘Operational Manual Trivia’ that any sane man could withstand.

As Martin’s humming was interrupted when he cleared his throat, Douglas sighed and pulled himself into a seated position, earning a cursory glance from the Captain.

“You with us then?” Martin asked, keeping half of his attention on the paperwork, but allowing his colleague a small quirk of his lips.

“Yes,” Douglas replied quickly, getting the pleasantries out of the way; the great thing about a one track mind was being able to brush aside others’ queries in favour of one’s own far more pertinent, “Where are we going? This mysterious figure didn’t stay long enough for me to eavesdrop.”

“You were asleep when he was here,” Martin retorted; the hand holding the pen paused as he looked up to meet Douglas’s gaze with an exasperated pinched expression, “Although if anyone _could_ eavesdrop in their sleep -”

“It would _absolutely_ be me, but unfortunately even _I_ struggle to achieve such feats over distances of more than about twenty yards.” Douglas smirked at the warm smile that crept over Martin’s features even as he looked pointedly away; it had become a habit between the two – they could easily manage to uphold a friendly conversation so long as a certain amount of ignoring was adopted by at least one party, “I repeat Martin, where are we going?”

“Hmm?” Martin looked up again, and this time his shoulders seemed to sag in defeat; Douglas enjoyed a moment of acknowledgement that his corruption of the Captain had been overall successful as Martin carefully stacked the papers (he must have finished the flight plan by then, so it couldn’t have been important), “Oh, Philadelphia…” he drew out the syllables, and took in the confused face that Douglas assumed he was making before leaning back in his chair and actually going so far as to rest the tips of his shoes on the desk, “He didn’t say why, he just said ‘ _make sure it gets there’_ as if he were in a cheesy spy film before disappearing.”

Douglas sat up a little straighter, his forehead furrowing in thought tinged with barely concealed annoyance.

“So we’re expected to fly half way across the world to _what_? Ferry his possessions?” he inquired; that couldn’t just be it, if it were, Carolyn would be over the moon; a big sum of money and no passengers to deal with, _Marvellous_! No, something didn’t add up.

“Not quite, the box is small enough to fit in the jump-seat.” Martin answered distractedly; the Captain’s corner of the office meant that he could just about see out of the fogged window if he peered over his nose, so Douglas assumed that Carolyn and Arthur were almost upon them.

“So it’s going to be another _fun_ one is it?” he jabbed at Martin, who to his credit bit back a chuckle and fixed Douglas with a persuasive grin.

“It could be if we made it fun.” Martin almost trilled in his low but sharp voice.

“ _No Martin_!” Douglas bemoaned loudly as the door to the porta-cabin swung open and the two missing members of MJN were followed in (in a stony silence) by the early morning breeze, “I told you, I don’t _like_ those manual games, they’re all numbers and facts – back me up Arthur.”

Arthur’s face lit up with curiosity as he wandered over to the sofa, dropping down in the space that Douglas’s legs had recently vacated, (the silence that Carolyn was upholding couldn’t have been an important one then, which meant that Douglas was no longer interested).

“What am I backing up?” Arthur asked, looking between the pilots a bit like the silly dog of his would when they used Carolyn’s house as a pick-up point.

“That Martin’s trivia games _aren’t_ as fun as he _thinks_ they are!”  Douglas insisted, raising a hand to gesture towards the Captain, whose face had actually reddened, as it always did when he was worked up, or embarrassed, or challenged, or…well all the time really.

Arthur looked momentarily torn, glancing again between Douglas and Martin, but his face brightened almost immediately afterwards as he met Douglas’s gaze.

“Well, I mean, Douglas is right, the stuff we need to remember isn’t very fun - ” he grinned at Douglas, and then looked apologetically at Martin, his smile fixed in place across his cheeks, “But the whole game feel about it – that’s _loads_ of fun! Even when I don’t get it right – it’s exciting trying to see, have I got it? No, I haven’t!” Arthur’s eyes unfocused as if he were lost in the moment before realigning; Douglas peered across him to share a meaningful, affectionate look with Martin before Arthur continued, “Even if Douglas and I _don’t_ win, it’s still a brilliant game Skip.”

“Thank you Arthur,” Martin acknowledged proudly, but it was Douglas that he directed his smug smirk at, to which Douglas rolled his eyes, “It’s nice to know _someone_ appreciates the effort I put into it.”

“ _Effort‽”_ Douglas intoned over whatever comment Arthur had been about to make, “You just ask questions about things you’ve learnt by heart!”

Honestly, for all that Martin complained about Douglas’s behaviour, the man was nothing short of devious himself; the smug grin on the Captain’s face did nothing to disprove this, although Douglas was detachedly aware that if Martin weren’t a _little_ evil, they might not be... ( _Gasp)_ _friends._

“Like you don’t think up all the answers to your word games before you start them.” Martin shot back, but there was no venom in his tone, just a muted acceptance.

Douglas huffed indignantly, folding his arms and glaring playfully across Arthur, who seemed to have chosen silent watching over interruption, his eyes flickering from one pilot to the other while the contented smile rested above his chin.

“ _Sir_ has some audacity to accuse _me_ of cheating.” Douglas drawled, earning himself a glare from Martin before his colleague realised that he was joking, and promptly rolled his eyes and muttered ‘ _yes, yes’_ , “As if I’d _ever_ stoop so low as to begin a game on unequal footing.”

Martin opened his mouth to reply but he was cut off.

“Will you two stop bickering!” Carolyn snapped; the sound of a heavy cardboard file hitting her desk made Douglas turn his head in interest, drawn by the unusual levels of frustration in her tone. Martin muttered what could have been an apology or a snide comment under his breath.

Douglas glanced towards Arthur, who shrugged his shoulders but didn’t say anything, instead picking at the skin around his finger nails. So a genuine bad mood then, not just a disagreement with the customer.

“Everything tickety-boo Carolyn?” Douglas asked warily, careful not to sound as if he cared; the look that the CEO shot him spoke volumes of how successful he had been, but also just how obedient he would have to be to get a relatively peaceful day, “It’s just you seem a little, what’s the word? _Frazzled?_ ”

“Thank you for your false concern Douglas but it is neither warranted nor desired.” Carolyn answered caustically; without looking up she strode towards Martin’s desk and surveyed the neatly stacked papers as the Captain looked up at the stern older woman, one eyebrow raised as if poised to defend himself from any verbal assault, “Have you finished the flight-plan yet Martin?”

Martin scrabbled for the correct sheets and held them aloft; Douglas watched the scene with curious and mildly contained amusement.

“Yes, I’ve got them right here!” Martin declared, pushing the extra papers into an uneven pile, “Should I file them now or are we waiting-”

“File them now.” Carolyn instructed sharply, her tone begging no argument, “I want the three of you jetting off in the next half hour.”

“Oh, are you not joining us on this trek?” Douglas intoned, earning a sideways purse of Carolyn’s lips.

It was Arthur that answered, as his mother marched back to the knackered old computer she had been working on when she had entered.

“Mum’s got a meeting with some important people and she doesn’t want them to see GERTI.” He explained seriously, but it didn’t seem as if the idea bothered him in the least, “Which I think is a bit silly really, because there wouldn’t be any _us_ without GERTI – well, there would be, but we wouldn’t be _here -”_

“You mean we _didn’t_ all just turn up one day to drink coffee on the airfield?” Douglas teased, inwardly wondering why he bothered as Arthur’s expression pinched with confusion, and then remembering when he caught sight of Martin’s face, “and here I thought the plane was just an added bonus!”

“ _Douglas…”_ Martin scolded lightly, before turning his attention back to Carolyn, “Which people? Shouldn’t _I_ be talking to them as well – I mean I _am_ the Captain.”

“And as glad as I’m _sure_ they’d be to hear that Martin, it’s the CEO they want to talk to, and the CEO they will get.” Carolyn replied, and a hint of pride leaked into her tone before she straightened herself up and looked between her two pilots, taking a deep breath as if to ready herself, “We are getting a visit from some CAA inspectors -”

“ _What?_ Why? I’ve been doing everything properly!” Martin insisted frantically, his voice taking on the reedy tone that accompanied panic; Douglas glanced momentarily in his direction, aware that if he weren’t also concerned by the prospect that this news brought, he would have found some words with which to mock the other man by then.

“You’re not in trouble!” Carolyn raised her voice and Martin fell silent instantly; she looked to Douglas, meeting his eyes, but apparently content that he had nothing to add, continued in a paced tone, “They just want to look over our books. Granted, that’ll be bad enough, but I don’t want to make our situation worse by presenting our metal-work aeroplane _or_ my incompetent staff.”

Douglas nodded in time with Martin, exchanging a silent agreement that for once they should just do as they were told. Both of them _really_ needed to not be unemployed after that day.

“So it’s like a ‘code red’ for the whole cabin crew?” Arthur interjected, his eyes wide as if he were adding something helpful to the conversation.

“Precisely Arthur,” Carolyn confirmed, and then clapped her hands together, “Now if the three of you aren’t gone by the time I count to _four,_ I will personally ensure that you wish you had been.”

The ensuing scramble definitely took more than four seconds, as Arthur hopped straight to his feet and vacated the porta-cabin, tripping as he did so over Douglas’s flight bag, and Douglas raised himself slowly but surely from the sofa, making it as far as the door before grudgingly holding it open as Martin hurried about his workspace, checking his jacket, brushing down his uniform, making it half way across the room before remembering his hat, and then repeating the same actions as he realised that he had swapped the hat for the flight-plan and eventually bustling past Douglas into the chilling bite of the airfield in the morning.

After years of such behaviour, Douglas found that he could only muster up an exasperated sigh and a pronounced roll of his eyes, while Martin replied with a ‘ _yes, I’m coming, just- hold on, I’m coming’_. With no Carolyn to annoy, no passengers to harass, the weight of a CAA check hanging over their heads, and a mysterious package once again taking up residence in their flight-deck, today had the possibility of becoming _even more_ frustrating.

***

“Post take-off checks complete, Captain.”

“Thank you Douglas.”

“So what do _you_ think is in the mysterious box?” Douglas inquired, grinning wickedly at Martin.

The Captain had removed his hat, leaving it hanging over the corner of his seat, which meant that his now riffled ginger hair did nothing to hide his face as he rolled his eyes and exhaled, or the imperceptible smile that crept onto his lips. He was trying to be professional (someone else hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep, Douglas guessed) but Douglas could tell that he was itching to know, which only made it _far_ more entertaining to push the man into playing along.

“As I said when Arthur ran through his list of suggestions, Douglas, I think we should respect the client’s privacy and accept that the package is none of our business.” Martin dictated, spacing the words out in his best ‘pilot’s’ voice.

“Oh, _really?_ ” Douglas drawled, smiling salaciously as Martin’s jaw clenched in the effort not to turn and address him properly; the First Officer settled back in his seat, rolling his shoulders back and relaxing despite the otherwise uncomfortable padding to which he had grown accustomed.

“Yes.” Martin said decidedly, and then sneaking a glance first at Douglas, then over his shoulder at the box that rested ominously in the jump-seat, “Besides…even if we all guessed, we couldn’t know who was right unless we opened it – which we _can’t_ do!”

“Of _course_ not.” Douglas pandered, putting on his best winning smile for Martin, who watched him suspiciously as he leaned forward to ‘ding’ the service bell; watching the Captain work himself into a mental tizzee over the box would constitute a fantastic in-flight source of entertainment.

The door to the flight deck scraped open and Arthur bumbled through, a mug in each hand.

“Alright chaps?” Arthur called over his shoulder while he nudged the door shut with his foot, wobbling precariously as he did so, “Your coffee and tea as per, in mugs that were heated before the water went in.”

“You remembered!” Douglas exulted cheerfully, as Martin shifted to allow Arthur room lean over and pop their drinks in front of them.

“Thank you Arthur,” Martin acknowledged, and then catching sight of exactly _where_ the steward was about to drop down onto, squeaked, “ _Don’t_ sit _there_ – the package!”

Arthur snapped hastily to his feet, having fallen partially on the box, knocking sideways, making whatever was inside thump against the wooden interior. He ran a hand sheepishly across the back of his neck.

“Sorry Skip,” Arthur apologised, looking around before shrugging to himself and instead leaning against the back of the First Officer’s seat; Douglas reached over his shoulder and briefly patted the arm that now hung just beside his head, and had a clever line at the ready, only to abandon it.

A firm but gentle prod in his upper arm moved his attention to Martin, who inclined his head towards the meters on the panel in front of them, even as Arthur asked “Can I still guess what’s in the box?”

“I reckon you should go ahead and open it.” Douglas encouraged, moving forward to make the necessary adjustments to their height and speed (apparently the wind had picked up tremendously in the last thirty seconds, _bloody typical)_ as Martin had been gracious enough to submit the first stretch of the flight to him.

“ _No_ Douglas, Arthur, that box is to remain _completely_ shut and…not opened at all during this flight.” Martin stressed, nodding authoritatively towards Douglas even as Arthur ‘aw-ed’ behind them.

Douglas would have argued, for the sake of fun (and winding Martin up more than anything), but all he managed was a rejected “ _Oh, come on!”_ , as for the first time in months the need to actually pay attention to the plane took priority. The readings still weren’t quite right, and judging by eye what effect the adjustments he was making had didn’t seem to be working.

“Yeah Skip, I’d make sure to put the lid back on _exactly_ how I found it.” Arthur was insisting behind him; he didn’t look up, but the sluggishness of Martin’s negative response, and the feel of a hand wavering just a small distance from his left elbow told him that the Captain had also noticed the issues with the steering (if not the unusually pensive expression on his First Officer’s face), and was teetering between interfering and holding back.

“Let him open the box Martin.” Douglas muttered, his tone lacking the usual bluster.

With a sigh (and what Douglas imagined was a hearty roll of his eyes, and an exaggerated slump of his shoulders) Martin gave up.

“ _Fine_! Just make sure it doesn’t look like we’ve been looking.” He groaned.

Douglas pushed back the swell of amusement as Arthur let out a small cheer, and the sound of him clattering about with the wooden crate carried to the front of the plane. Thankfully, before he could bite back his pride as well, and ask for Martin’s opinion, the Captain leaned in so that their heads were almost together and asked in a hushed voice.

“Douglas, is everything okay? Not that I don’t think you’re doing fine, but…” he took a breath, and seemingly encouraged when Douglas didn’t come back with a sharp retort, and merely raised an eyebrow, hurried on, “It’s just, I’m looking at the readings, and out of the window, and just sort of feeling the alignment of the plane, and something doesn’t feel quite right - ”

“No Martin, you’re _right - ”_ Douglas admitted, and Martin’s mouth clapped shut and his eyes widened as if he had been delivered the worst possible news; granted, Douglas thought, he couldn’t remember a single time in their relationship where he had uttered those words, “It feels like we’re going over turbulence – which is why I went to adjust our height- but the Altimeters are showing different things, the artificial horizon is useless as always, and by eye it looks like we’re fine.”

Douglas took his eyes from the panel in front of him to observe Martin’s reaction. He didn’t want to come across as paranoid, but a pilot’s intuition was a pilot’s intuition – maybe he was going prematurely senile…but the weird feeling in his gut made it so that waiting for Martin’s, _Martin’s_ verdict wasn’t as humiliating as it would normally be.

If it weren’t for the continuous sounds of Arthur clattering in the background, the tense but confident ‘Captain-y’ way that Martin contorted his face for a mere moment might have seemed impressive. The fact that it dropped seconds later and Martin scratched anxiously at his ruffled hair made this an impossibility.

“Do you think we should ditch into the nearest airfield?” he questioned lowly, so that Arthur wouldn’t hear; Douglas wished that Martin wouldn’t look to him with those big eyes, as if he could provide a fool-proof answer when he was so completely out of ideas, “I mean, and don’t make fun of me, but – I do have kind of a funny feeling – _don’t look at me like that!”_

“I didn’t say anything.” Douglas replied dully; in truth he imagined his face had clouded with confusion, the raised eyebrow being mistaken for mockery. Maybe they had both inhaled some toxic fumes on their way across the airfield…whatever it was, now that Douglas was actually worried (and wasn’t _that_ a kick in the teeth), the last thing he wanted was for Martin to panic, so he fixed on a reassuring smile and remarked flippantly, “There’s probably nothing to worry about! Just GERTI misbehaving again, the _old girl,_ shecould use a touch up soon _.”_

 _“_ Of course.” Martin agreed quickly, straightening up in his seat (Douglas mirrored this action, pointedly ignoring the creaking that his shoulder made), “Everything’s fine, just fine – we’re just worrying over nothing, nothing we haven’t seen before, eh?”

“Yes Martin.” Douglas answered, giving his Captain a sympathetic smile, which was returned thinly as the trepidation remained in Martin’s eyes while they flickered around the flight-deck and he flexed his fingers.

A brief silence passed, in which Douglas just about managed to calm himself (not that there was _any_ reason to be worked up in the first place), when there was a grating CRACK from behind the pilots’ seats, making both he and Martin jump and turn to stare over their shoulders, neck’s cricking.

“Arthur I said _DON’T_ break anything!” Martin bemoaned, shaking his head and groaning, sinking down into his seat and focusing back on the sky; Douglas decided that this blocking tactic was probably the best course of action. Coming up with an excuse to explain the broken box would be easy, but he didn’t think he could have held back the scathing comments, and given his mood, they would be the kind that left Arthur sulking in the cabin.

“Sorry Skip!” Arthur apologised, not sounding the least but sorry.

“Can you see what it is yet?” Douglas inquired dryly; they might as well quench their curiosity now that Arthur had succeeded.

There was some more clattering as Arthur presumably dropped the remains of the wooden lid on the floor of the flight-deck, and dug into the crate.

“It’s…I’m not sure what it is…” Arthur answered, his tone implying that the mysterious object, which Douglas couldn’t muster the energy to turn and look at, had done him a great offence, “Hold on – just let me have a look – OW!”

That was the last thing Douglas heard before a high pitched, ear splitting whine filled the air, and a harsh white light that could have come from outside or in burned into his retinas. The plane seemed to jolt forward, making him catch himself on the panel in front of him.

He could just about hear Martin shouting frantically at his side, and although he couldn’t quite see, Douglas took the initiative and tried to feel for the right controls, to try and stop the disturbing, fear inducing shuddering that was making it difficult to sit up straight, let alone stand to see if Arthur was alright.

He tried to yell to Martin, reaching out to his left, and just when he was giving up hope, his brain screaming with the confusion pushed upon it by the piercing shrill screaming and burning beams of lights, and the rocking and shaking and turning – his fingers grasped at a soft, familiar warmth, which slipped away as Martin too was flailing and trying to right the plane.

And there it was again, the weight of Martin’s arm under his hand. Douglas had no idea what was going on, but he could make out the unintelligible sound of Martin’s voice, and maybe his own – and it was hot, but cold –

-          and Martin’s arm stopped flailing and there was his hand, grasping at his own arm, his fingers digging painfully into Douglas’s flesh.

Douglas tried to grasp at the hand, stop it clenching and unclenching, make Martin calm down and try to work out what was happening – they were trained to deal with emergencies but Douglas had no idea –

It was so _loud_ , and so _bright_ …and then his ears were ringing, and it felt like his guts were rolling and migrating as he felt the alignment change and the plane spin, or fall or…

Then it was dark, and Douglas could just about hear Martin’s voice…but then he couldn’t…and then…


	2. Chapter Two

The first thing that Douglas became aware of was the ringing in his ears, a dull, low throbbing that made his head spin. He felt numb all over, and was struggling to remember just what had happened. He moved his limbs about; he tried, but they couldn’t have moved far. The moment that they did, it was as if all the blood in his body had burst into life and sought out every painful fraction of his flesh.

It was dark, but then he realised that his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he didn’t want to open them. His back ached, and through the fabric of his uniform jacket he could feel the cold, hard, steel grating pressing his spine into an uncomfortable position.

His uniform – he had been flying. For a moment he panicked, but didn’t open his eyes. Had they crashed? Sounds were beginning to filter through the monotonous drone…crackling, beeping, coughing somewhere to the…he wasn’t sure where.

He remembered…it hadn’t been a normal crash. There were the readings, the box…Arthur and the box, and Martin shouting.

Douglas still didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to move, but he could hear coughing. That was coughing. He had to know what was going on.

There was no engine noise…they weren’t flying. They must have landed – but he didn’t remember. He remembered Martin shouting…he wasn’t shouting now.

Slowly, carefully, his eyes still squeezed, giving the pretence of security in the darkness, Douglas moved his right arm, dragging it across the floor and reaching out for … anything. He winced as it collided with what felt like the underside of his pilot’s seat.

The shuffling of fabric, and the wheezing coughing continued, somewhere to Douglas’s right, or it might have been left. Douglas let out a groan that reverberated through his chest, and he was marginally pleased to find that none of his ribs seemed broken.

“Douglas?”

At the sound of Martin’s voice, scared, frazzled, and relieved all at the same time, Douglas’s eyes snapped open, only to be pinched closed against the onslaught of harsh light and smoke that made them water.

When he opened them again, in response to the near hysterical laughter that Martin let out, Douglas was able to take in the damage done to the flight-deck. He had never looked at it from this angle, (and never would again, the way it was making his neck crick), but he was certain that the lights should have been on to combat the shadows that streaked across the cabin, that the metalwork shouldn’t have looked like it had been burnt by open flames, and that the warning lights shouldn’t have been blaring furiously at each other. The window at the front was covered in a grey film, which only let in a few speckled rays of light.

It was with a wave of relief that his eyes trailed up Martin’s figure. He was perched on the edge of his Captain’s seat, his uniform ruffled and torn, but mostly in one piece; he was slumped forward over the control panel, one arm slung haphazardly and the other fingering the radio, and his head was hung, his shoulders tensed, as he continued to gasp and choke with what could have been relief that he was alive or post-traumatised panic.

Without thinking about it, Douglas extended his arm and let his fingers brush the cuff of Martin’s black trousers, grasping the fabric between his second and third.

Immediately Martin’s leg twitched, and the Captain was on his knees, helping Douglas hoist himself in to a seated position, his back against the panel (which was no more comfortable than the floor). Douglas grasped at his shoulder, patting it awkwardly just to make sure that he was awake.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and Martin looked as if he were about to break into hysterical laughter again, but he sucked in her chest, set his jaw and nodded. Douglas was sure this wasn’t the full story, as Martin’s face was stained black in places, as if he had been tarred by the smoke that still lingered in the air.

Martin’s hands drifted over Douglas’s face, then arms, then torso, and Douglas might have made a snide comment had he not been relieved by the way that Martin nodded, as if to reassure himself that no lasting damage had been done.

Which was strange, really…everything else spoke of a truly horrible accident.

“I –I, I did check on you.” Douglas was knocked from his musings and realised that Martin had resumed his position, hunched over the control panel, his fingers fiddling with the radio; upon seeing whatever expression was on Douglas’s face (bewildered he presumed – his brain was taking a while to gear back up), Martin tried to smile encouragingly, but failed, “I mean, I didn’t just leave you on the floor – I, I, I – I checked on you, but you- uh- you didn’t wake up, but you were, you were breathing, so I decided to try and call for help - ”

Douglas nodded, too tired to even mock playfully; he allowed his eyes to fall on the darkened rear of the flight-deck, which was terrifyingly still, but didn’t do anything save swallow anxiously. When he looked back at Martin, he saw the Captain’s eyes linger in the same spot, his head snapping around as he shook it, as if dispelling unwelcome, guilty thoughts.

“Have you had any luck?” he inquired, wincing at how raspy his voice sounded; it must have been too long since he had last spoken (or had he spoken at all?), because the upon hearing his colleague, the tension in Martin’s shoulders released just a mite, and his half-smile was a little less forced.

“No…not a single _bloody_ signal is working!” Martin growled, and Douglas was cheered a fraction as Martin’s calm panic was overwhelmed by his hot-headed temper. That was far better than scared any day.

Which was exactly what _he_ was, (not that he would ever admit it) especially when his eyes wandered once again to the most damaged, blackened part of the flight-deck.

“Arthur?” Douglas didn’t think he could bring himself to ask any more.

Martin looked up from his ministrations, but kept his hands on the radio, gripping it as if it were a lifeline. His eyes trailed down to his feet, and then he met Douglas’s sheepishly, biting his bottom lip, which was painfully red, as if he’d been gnawing at it.

“I checked on him too – he’s fine, he’s just, he’s sleeping too.” He explained, and once again he glanced towards the back of the flight-deck.

Douglas let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding, allowing himself to slide partially down the control panel. Now that he really listened, he could hear the sound of breathing and snuffling from behind the seats.

He watched Martin work for a few minutes, or it could have been longer, his head was still fuzzy. There was nothing particularly interesting in watching his Captain grow more and more frustrated with the radio, and then take a deep breath and become the professional that he loved to be, but it was enough to keep Douglas from sending himself into insanity with the questions that were cartwheeling about his head, leaving tiny little cleat marks within.

After a while, even that became too monotonous. As the one who always solved everything, there was something incomplete about observing Martin fulfil his role as Captain beautifully, and yet remaining obsolete himself.

With a groan, that collapsed into a coughing fit, which ended with Martin’s hand patting awkwardly at his back before retreating, Douglas pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards the cabin, using the seats as support.

It was darker in the back, and the box, now charred, but still holding the mysterious object, was resting gloatingly on the jump-seat. Douglas ignored it; he no longer wanted to know what was inside.

Instead he lowered himself to the floor beside the prostrate form that was their steward.

Getting a good look at him did actually lift the weight on Douglas’s chest by small degrees. As Martin had promised, Arthur did look as if he were sleeping, his arms and head moving every now and then as if following some somnolent trail.

Douglas made himself busy, taking his mind off of their predicament by carefully pressing his hands to strategic points along Arthur’s body, checking to make sure that nothing was broken or dislocated. Everything looked fine save for a few cuts on his hands and face, and the fact that given his still slumbering state, he probably had concussion.

If that were the case, it was time to wake him up.

Douglas settled down, getting as comfortable as was possible given the confined space between the back of the jump-seat and the flight-deck door, which was charred and bent at the bottom, the top of it almost melted into the frame. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Martin had been trying to jam it open, and failed miserably.

He glanced towards the still hunched Captain, and saw that yes, every now and then Martin rolled his right shoulder back, letting out a restrained hiss of pain.

Looking back down at Arthur’s slumbering form, Douglas released a sigh and got to work, first prodding his shoulder, and then deciding that given the circumstances that probably wasn’t the most acceptable form of communication, placed his palm over the steward’s upper arm and shook, reassured by the steady pulse beneath his hand.

“Come on Arthur, it’s time to get up now.” He said dryly, relieved to find that his voice had regained some of its strength. His eyes flickered upwards, just catching sight of Martin as he looked away, returning to his futile battle with the radio.

Once they were all awake, Douglas could take control again. Martin had clearly run out of ideas, and wouldn’t take kindly to it, but underneath, Douglas was certain that it would be well received.

Arthur let out a disgruntled moan, his left arm flopping upwards as if the thwack Douglas’s hand away; Douglas took this to meant that Arthur was _fine_ , and the light shaking became harsh prodding once more.

“ _Arthur_ …wake up!” he enunciated clearly and loudly, and this time Arthur twitched and jumped, and his eyes opened and closed as he reached towards the pressure on his arm.

“uhhh… _Dougla-as_ , go away…” Arthur whined, and Douglas heard Martin snort up front; he didn’t grace that with a response, instead removing his hand from Arthur’s arm and flicked the side of his head, which made the steward’s eyes snap open and glare pitifully up at him.

“That would be the correct answer were we lounging on a beach and I’d disturbed your lazy afternoon.” Douglas drawled, and Arthur’s expression softened as he raised himself onto his elbows and surveyed the mess around him, “As it is, a plane crash is not the best time for a nap.”

“ _Oh…_ ” Arthur breathed, his eyes widening. He raised a hand to the back of his scraggily brown hair, and winced; Douglas assumed that there would be a nasty bruise there, but there was no sign of blood anywhere on the grating where he had lain, so he didn’t let it worry him too much.

Arthur’s gaze wandered toward the mangled box, and Douglas tried not to follow it.

“Is all this because I messed with the thing in the box?” Arthur asked warily, and if Douglas hadn’t known him better, he’d have said that Arthur looked as if he were expecting him to yell, or shout. Which was ridiculous…then again, there had been those few times, when he was in a particularly bad mood.

But now was not the time to be ruminating over such things.

“Maybe…but it’s not your fault. Something was wrong before you opened it.” He assured him. Arthur, nodding and pursing his lips, suddenly split into a smile, which Douglas had to admit, made their situation seem a little less terrible.

“Well that’s alright then.” Arthur stated, and Douglas couldn’t think of a legitimate way to dispute that, so left it with a simple:

“Yes… _ish_.”

“So what _was_ in the box?” Martin’s voice carried back to them, and Douglas looked up to meet his Captain’s gaze.

Martin had swivelled around in his seat, the radio abandoned and replaced instead with a defeated and exhausted shadow that fell over his face, as he looked wearily over the damage done to the flight-deck.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed and his forehead crinkled, and Douglas shared a tentative glance with Martin while he gathered his thoughts.

Finally, Arthur nodded to himself and looked between the pilots.

“It looked kind of like a big, metal Polo mint…but with buttons all over it.” He described, and Douglas took a moment to watch the way Martin’s mouth opened and closed dramatically before coming back with a decent retort.

“And let me guess…you saw these unidentified buttons and thought that you’d press one and see what happened.”

“Well, there was a small flashy purple light, so I reached in to turn it off.” Arthur explained, as if it were the plainest truth in the world. Douglas heard Martin sigh, and was tempted to scold Arthur for his behaviour, but decided at the last moment, as he watched the young man rub his palm over his face, that he had suffered enough.

With a grunt, and not a little effort, Douglas managed to prop himself up with his arms and hoist himself back onto his feet. Without pausing to help Arthur up (he could do that _himself_ ), he moved sluggishly to the front of the flight-deck and dropped gracelessly into his seat, ignoring Martin’s careful looks.

He stared at the fogged window, praying (though he knew it was futile) that the filthy mist would fade and allow him the comfort of knowing where they were. None of them were horribly injured, which was a huge hulking weight off of his chest, but that didn’t detract from the fact that GERTI was ominously silent, or that the walls were smoke-stained, and the smell of rusted steel clung to the very pores of the air around them.

Douglas was pulled once again from his own mind, the treacherous thing, by Martin’s knees knocking into his own, as the Captain (in a move that made Douglas realise just how dire Martin was finding things) shoved himself up to rest on the control panel, allowing Arthur to sit in _the Captain’s seat._

“Are you still dizzy Arthur?” Douglas asked, running his eyes over the steward’s face again. It didn’t look quite right with the small cuts clipping his cheeks, but the way that his eyebrows knitted together, leaving him with a pinched expression, was more worrying. He was lucid though, and Douglas supposed that that was something.

“Yeah…but that’s alright – it’s like seeing the world through one of those fairground mirrors.” Arthur answered cheerfully; he looked between Martin and Douglas, who had themselves exchanged a glance that made Douglas feel as if for just a moment everything were back to normal; then Arthur’s face drooped, and he licked his lips before asking, “Uh…Chaps…not that I’m rushing you or anything, but what are we going to do now?”

Martin immediately looked to Douglas, who all but floundered; or, to be more precise, opened his mouth, found that he didn’t have an answer (he’d have said radio for help, but it was abundantly clear that that wasn’t an option), and spread out his hands in the universal gesture for ‘I haven’t the foggiest’.

Martin exhaled sharply and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing them violently from his chin to his red hair before peering over them.

“No, no, I’m the Captain – I should be the one making the command decisions.” He groaned, his eyes still boring desperately into Douglas’s; he actually felt a pang of guilt that he had nothing to offer, “and I’ve been _trying_ , I really have – I tried to open the door and I twisted my shoulder, I tried the radio, but no one’s answering… I- I –I don’t know what to do, there is _no_ emergency procedure for this!”

“Martin, _calm down.”_ Douglas interrupted the litany, just in time it appeared, as Martin’s chest was practically heaving with the effort of thinking and self-deprecating at the same time.

“But I’m the _Captain._ ” Martin insisted, gesturing to his own chest with his hands, his eyes wide; Douglas wasn’t sure whether he was heading more towards hysteria or a full-on ‘I am the Supreme Commander’ moment, and at any other time, it might have been amusing.

Now however, it was just adding to the headache that was everything else around them; he hated to think what it was like inside the blender that was the Captain’s mind in that moment.

Luckily, Arthur offered them an out in his typical fashion; although, in his typical fashion, it only led to more unanswered questions and problems for Douglas to throw back to think on later.

“You’ve been _really_ Captain-y, Skip.” He said encouragingly from his slouched position, holding onto the only genuine smile on GERTI, “Cos, we’re not all broken up, so even though I don’t remember it, you must have landed us _really_ well.”

Douglas looked to Martin, who, contrary to what he had expected, clammed up. He was no longer gaping, but his eyes had narrowed and he seemed to be analysing his fingers. Douglas realised in an instant that Martin had under no circumstances, landed the plane.

Which sent an uncomfortable worm of doubt squirming up his spine and splitting off the crawl down the lesser veins under his flesh.

They weren’t in pieces, and GERTI was horizontal; had everything else gone as a normal air accident would, Douglas would have assumed that Martin had brought back the gallant and confident pilot from St Petersburg and landed them on his own.

Except, even before Martin said “I didn’t land her.” Douglas knew that neither of them had even been conscious to land the plane.

Which added another thing to the ever growing list of things that were so very, very _wrong_ with where they were now.

Douglas raised his hands and dragged them over his face, letting out a shaky breath. When he dropped them, it was to find that Martin and Arthur were both watching him warily. It took a second, but he remembered that he was supposed to be the epitome of calm.

As much as he would have liked to hand over all responsibility, lie back and wait to be rescued, it just wasn’t his place. _God knew_ he had no idea what to do, but if he didn’t do _something_ , Martin would never let him live it down. Once they got out and back home that was.

“Right, we need to look at this pragmatically.” Douglas started.

“I _have_ been.” Martin insisted, his voice reaching that mildly grating tone that paired so freely with indignation.

Douglas glared at him, and the Captain quickly shut his mouth, nodding primly. Well…if nothing else it was nice to see Martin had regained his prissiness.

“Even _more_ pragmatically.” He repeated; he spared a glance towards Arthur, who had been kind enough to remain quiet, nodding along as if a plan was already being formed, “Do we have any idea where we are?”

Martin shook his head, and drew his bottom lip through his teeth before he replied.

“No. Everything’s down – the navigation, the maps, the radio…the GPS on your phone-”

“Hold on, how’ve you got _my_ phone?” Douglas shot back; he quickly patted down his jacket and found that his phone was indeed missing from its place in the inside pocket.

Martin was looking sheepish, but he met Douglas’s stare with a great amount of self-importance, straightening his back and pouting slightly.

“I took it from your pocket when you were unconscious.” He justified, “I thought it would be helpful, and as _my_ First Officer, you would feel obligated to help out in any way you could.”

“You sneaky little thief…” Douglas murmured; in truth, he was almost impressed. True, it was no mastermind trickery, but it did show some initiative. Then again, he wouldn’t have dared try and take his phone while he was awake.

Martin flushed a charming shade of red, and he was about to respond, when there was a wailing, screeching creak from somewhere outside the flight-deck, followed by a resounding thud.

For an immeasurable stretch of time, nobody spoke; the three of them sat, tensed, their eyes glued to the door. The sound of footsteps, clanging off the metal floor outside, yet unaccompanied by voices to announce the new intruders, set Douglas’s teeth on edge.

Sky god or not, he was in no way fit to take down people that might be less than friendly.

“Was that the galley door?” As though Douglas could have predicted it, it was Arthur that broke the tension, although, he too seemed to sense the tangible trepidation, as his voice remained hushed.

“I think so…” Douglas replied quietly, still unwilling to risk anything. Martin made as if to surge forward, to do what Douglas had no idea, but he stuck out his arm and held the Captain back.

Before Martin could argue, a voice, male but muffled, carried through the flight-deck door.

“ _Hello?”_ the footsteps (Douglas thought it might have been two sets, but he couldn’t be sure) grew louder, and there was a thump against the door, making it shake in its frame, before the voice continued, “ _Hello? Is-is anyone in there?”_

Douglas made a shushing motion, but Martin shook his head.

“ _I_ am the Captain.” He hissed, so that they wouldn’t be overheard, and then in a raised tone called, “Yes! Yes, we’re in here!” again, when he tried to move, Douglas held him back. Martin pursed his lips, but conceded defeat, and stayed put by the control panel.

Douglas’s eyes were fixed on the door. Underneath it, and around the edges where it had been wrenched out of place, where light filtered through the cracks, he could just make out the shadow of somebody. They didn’t sound malicious, but that didn’t stop him worrying.

“ _Who are you?”_ the voice called out again, and this time there was a definite strained quality to it. That wasn’t what made Douglas tense up though; he recognised that voice. That voice was achingly familiar, but no matter how hard he tried, it was as if his brain put on the brakes the moment he got close to figuring out where from.

A quick look told him that Martin must have felt it too, for there was a strange expression on his face, one of bewilderment. That didn’t stop him negotiating.

“We’re the pilots!” Martin retorted, in the same tone of voice he used whenever someone asked him if he were heading towards the wrong end of the plane, “There’s three of us stuck in here – Martin Crieff, Arthur Shappey, and Douglas Richardson!”

The footsteps ceased immediately, as did the tapping that Douglas hadn’t noticed starting, as if the man on the other side of the door, whoever he was, had been testing the strength of the door. There was also no immediate reply. This did nothing to help the building anxiety in Douglas’s gut, a feeling that he wasn’t accustomed to experiencing. He was about to say something, but the mysterious man beat him to it.

“ _Wait…M-Martin Crieff, Arthur Shappey and?...Douglas…_ Richardson _?”_

“So you’ve heard of us?” Douglas couldn’t help himself from sniping at the top of his voice, making sure that the intruder would hear, “I hadn’t realised that our fame preceded us so.”

“ _Douglas!”_ Martin hissed, but he ignored this. A low murmuring was coming from the other side of the door, and Douglas felt a spike of pride at knowing he had guessed correctly in thinking there were at least two people out there.

“ _Are you really who you say you are?”_ the voice asked, and there was a caution, which Douglas thought was completely unnecessary given their current standing, in his tone.

“Yes we are!” Arthur shouted, earning himself a sharp glare from Martin; the steward seemed oblivious, and continued in a cheery yell, “Could you maybe let us out? I’m quite dizzy, Skip’s getting grouchy, and Douglas is being far too quiet.”

Douglas turned away from the door to lock eyes with Arthur, sending him every disbelieving vibe that he could. Arthur just shrugged and waited for a reply. Douglas looked helplessly to Martin, who looked equally out of his depth, his arms wrapping loosely around his chest.

“ _Yes…Yes, just – stand back- we’re going to try and knock the door in!”_

Even as he shifted further behind his chair, catching sight of Martin pulling his arms up to shield his face, Douglas realised that he really, really didn’t want that door to open. It was like a gut reaction to the voice he had heard, as if every fibre of his body told him that he shouldn’t see who was on the other side. It was so _familiar._

Suddenly there was a bang, a crash as a heavy weight forced itself into the flight-deck door. Douglas heard Martin wincing at the damage, but watched as the cracks grew wider, more light filtered through, blending seamlessly with the exhaustive grunts as the voice- the man, put his weight into breaking in.

And then the door was down, and the extra light, though insubstantial, was enough that for a moment, all Douglas could make out was a silhouette. While his eyes adjusted, he heard Arthur gasp to his left, and he felt more than saw Martin push back further into the control panel.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, Douglas’s brain ground to a halt as fast as his lungs.

Standing in the doorway, an expression part-way between shock and morbid fascination, his uniform dusty but immaculate, and minus its adjoining hat (which might have prevented the smoky dust from tarnishing the tidy red hair)…was Martin Crieff.


	3. Chapter Three

Douglas’s head was reeling. All he could make himself do was stare, mouth agape, between his Captain, pale, freckled, pressing himself back against the control panel, his knees brushing Douglas’s, and the _other_ man, the _other_ man, with tousled red hair, pale and freckled, decked out in a familiar navy uniform, that stood just as stiffly, eyes just as wide, in the entrance to the flight-deck.

Martin’s lips were opening and closing, truncated choking noises escaping in intervals as his blue eyes almost popped out of his face; his hand was scrabbling across the control panel for support, the impossibility of what he was seeing obviously piling pressure onto the already too mind-bending day, and Douglas had to physically stop himself from taking it, whether to support Martin or to give himself something to cling to and reassure him that he wasn’t asleep, he didn’t know.

The man that looked just like Martin (and _that_ was why the voice had sounded so familiar – the same voice Douglas had heard hundreds of times, grating at times, but strong yet wavering when things were getting out of hand)…he was frozen, like a grotesque-but-not mirror image, eyes wide and mouth wandering.

He wasn’t shaking, or stammering as Martin was, but that was to be expected, Douglas thought, the man had been given fair warning, he had willingly stepped aboard a plane flying the banner of MJN.

His eyes scanned down Martin, and then over Arthur (who was peering over his nose at the new man, and then back at Martin, bewildered, but not panicked or scared), as if they were figments come to life. Though he had wanted to, Douglas didn’t react when the man’s eyes fell on _him_ , but the way that his expression changed to something more perplexing than when he had looked at the others, something lingering and curious, made Douglas feel as if insects were crawling up the underside of his flesh.

Lastly, he peered at the charred box that sat tauntingly in the jump-seat, and the bob that his throat made told Douglas that he wanted to ask, but refrained.

He looked as if he wanted to speak, but knowing Martin (though Douglas wouldn’t believe that that was Martin without some damn good evidence), neither of them would want to speak first. For a proud man, the Captain had some serious issues with himself. Which meant that it was his responsibility.

“Who the _hell_ are _you_?” Douglas asked in a low whisper, and the _other_ one’s expression contorted into a righteous indignation, which was so achingly familiar.

“I’m Martin Crieff! _Captain_ Martin Crieff!” the man insisted, and just as Douglas had grudgingly expected, it was as if he were defending himself against a criticism that hadn’t come, as if he had grown accustomed to having to talk himself up.

“No _I’m_ Martin Crieff!” Martin snapped back, making an angry desperate gesture with his hand, “Who are you _really?_ A clone, an alien, _a man in a mask?”_

Douglas sent him a stern glare, but before Douglas had time to say anything useful, anything that might make sense of what was happening, anything that might make the stained walls, the bruised cabin crew, and the blurred accident even a little bit rational, the man – _Other-Martin_ – was arguing again.

“ _Excuse me!_ I am Captain Martin Crieff, this is _my_ airfield – y-you are the ones that just, just appeared out of nowhere -” Other-Martin enunciated tensely and prissily, pointing his finger accusingly at each of them in turn. Douglas noted that his eyes were still wandering over to him, and clenched his fingers over the edge of his seat.

Other-Martin’s posture, one arm either side of the door frame hadn’t changed; it was as if he were grounding himself, much the same way that _his_ Martin was gripping the control panel as surreptitiously as possible.

“Wo-ow… _your_ airfield?” Arthur cut across Martin’s huffy scoff, smiling wondrously up at the Other-Martin; Douglas was inwardly glad of the distraction, the spinning in his head still whirling as it liked, and his confidence in his grasp of the situation slipping into insecurity, “ _Our_ Skip’s only got a van – it’s a brilliant van, but it’s not a whole airfield.”

“ _I’ve_ got a van, i-it’s my Icarus one – but _no_ , it’s not my airfield, it’s Fitton’s airfield.” Other-Martin explained, watching Arthur warily as he replied; Douglas wasn’t surprised to see that he relaxed a fraction at Arthur’s simplicity, something comfortable and non-confrontational, but immediately scolded himself for acting like he knew this…man. None of this was right.

Martin on the other hand was dealing with things about as well as he dealt with anything out of his grasp.

“No – _see_ , you must be lying, be-because _we_ came from Fitton, we were heading _away_ from Fitton-” he spluttered hastily.

Douglas rolled his eyes while the Other-Martin spluttered in equal measure; the only difference was that where Martin was getting worked up out of fear (and Douglas couldn’t blame the man – there could be no good reason for them to be where they were now), Other-Martin was puffing out his chest in indignation, getting worked up because he wasn’t in control. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he had known his Captain long enough to be able to read the subtle shades.

“Why would I lie‽” Other-Martin demanded; his face was turning a charming shade of red that only inflamed the freckles, “What _possible_ reason could I have for lying – _you’re_ the intruders! The only reason I didn’t call security was because the tail said _MJN_!”

“But you must have _done_ something!” Martin hissed, and Douglas was pleased to see (or feel) that he had regained enough confidence (or it might have been pride) to lean into the exclamation, wrapping his arms around his chest as the movement sent him brushing past his co-pilot.

That didn’t mean it was at all helpful. _Arthur_ was being more helpful in that moment, and that was only because he was showing rare sense and keeping his mouth zipped. While Other-Martin was clenching his jaw and searching for a decent retort, Douglas decided that it was time to get back on track.

He turned so that he was sitting straighter in his seat (forcing himself not to wince as his back twinged) and able to look between the three other people in the flight-deck. He was certain that there was still someone else lurking in the Galley, and that didn’t set his mind at ease, but there was no use stalling when there was nowhere to go but forward.

“Listen…Other-Martin-”

“You can’t call him _Other_ -Martin!” Martin exclaimed, just as Other-Martin blurted that “You can’t call me _Other_ -Martin!”

Douglas exhaled loudly and sharply; there was no other way of communicating his frustration ( _one_ Martin was plenty – thank you _very_ much, _goodbye_ ), and if he was honest, he _wanted_ them to hear how angry he could get if they didn’t shut up and let him sort everything out.

And now he was doing it as well; expecting the answers to life the universe and everything to fall into his lap based purely on the fact that he was Douglas Richardson.

“You could call him _Crieff_.” Arthur chimed in, making both Douglas and Martin turn to him with curious expressions on their faces; Other-Martin just sort of sighed, shaking his head slightly as if to say ‘ _ah, but of course’._ Douglas filed that away for later.

When there was no flurry of response, Arthur reiterated, in the tone of voice he used when he thought that _they_ were being slow; more hushed, more drawn out, but just as Arhur-ish.

“Because _then_ , we’d have Martin, and then the other one, would be Crieff.”

“Y _es…_ ” Douglas replied, and then turned his sights back to Other-Martin,  who had started to insist furiously that he wasn’t ‘ _the other one’,_ “I’ll start again; _explain_ what happened, as far as you are concerned.” He instructed sternly.

At this point, _his_ Martin would have rolled his eyes and muttered something about asking nicely, but Other-Martin’s eyebrows quirked and pulled together, and his eyes narrowed as his shoulders stiffened.

“If you’re the First Officer, then I don’t think you’re in any position to be ordering me around.” Other-Martin said in a clipped tone (and he was _definitely_ looking at Douglas again, as if he had sprouted too many heads, or sworn to find some puppies and kick them), and then in a painfully Martin-ish manner, backtracked, his eyes tracing the ground before snapping forward, “But, I _was_ going to ask the same thing. I don’t see why I can’t go first – maybe you’ll _believe me_ this time.” He glared pointedly at Martin, who sniffed and looked to Douglas for momentary support.

He didn’t receive any, as Douglas was too busy staring, mouth slightly agape, at Other-Martin. Martin would never have brushed him off like that, not since the first year they had worked together. In fact, it had become visibly apparent to the both of them (around the time that they were laughing together, shoving geese through an airport metal detector) that their working relationship worked far better when they were equal at all times (save the few where protocol was vital).

If Other-Martin was telling the truth, Douglas realised with a dropping feeling in his abdomen, and this was _his_ Fitton, and not theirs, then his own alter ego was not doing his job properly. And that only brought about the absolute absurdity of what he had just considered.

As neither Douglas nor Martin said a word to the contrary, and Arthur looked positively thrilled at the idea, his fingers curling around the top of the Captain’s seat as he leant over it, Other-Martin cleared his throat awkwardly before starting his explanation.

“There’s uh- there’s not much to _say._ ” He admitted, and just as Martin was leaning almost subconsciously into Douglas’s presence, Other-Martin glanced over his shoulder as if for moral support, although nothing made itself visible to the crew, “When we left the airfield yesterday, everything was _normal_ – I mean, as normal as it _can_ be considering – that’s not to say... _look_ , everything was fine, but when I arrived this morning, before _all_ the grounds-staff, _as usual-”_

“As quick as you like.” Douglas interrupted the splurge, and earned _another_ indecipherable look; having never been looked at as if he shouldn’t be there (not that he would remember the times when that look might have been appropriate – there was only a certain amount of ethanol a body could consume before it shut down the least useful faculties) he wasn’t sure what to make of the uncomfortable squirm that it caused. He just _really_ hoped this wasn’t how Martin had felt back when he was left out of Douglas’s better schemes.

What made it so uncomfortable, was the fact that it was coming from someone who looked so much like _Martin._

Other-Martin continued, clearing his throat again.

“I came in, and right across the field, there was a huge…well it looked like a plane had missed the runway and cut itself a ditch in the struggle.” He recalled; Douglas inwardly winced at the image the description conjured up (they had survived _that?)_ , and nodded comfortingly in return for Martin’s hopeless frown, “And then I, I saw that it was _GERTI –_ except it couldn’t have been, because I checked, and GERTI was _in the hangar_ – we’d put her there because Carolyn was complaining about having to heat her up from frozen.”

“You’ve got another Mum?” Arthur exclaimed excitedly; Douglas sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, relishing the moment of peace that it provided as the world slipped away for a moment.

“Well…yes.” Other-Martin’s expression shifted into the put-out pout that Martin got when he realised that he wasn’t being listened to, and shrugged lopsidedly, a hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. As he moved he seemed to realise that he was still restricted to the space underneath the doorframe.

“But, _Arthur_ , you’ve sort of missed the point-” Martin interjected, and it seemed to Douglas’s relief that he had momentarily forgotten that he was having a mental-breakdown. Things would work so much more smoothly, and Douglas would be free from worrying about his colleague, so long as Martin could remain calm and relaxed, feeling as if he were in control even though he wasn’t.

Arthur shrugged and shook his head at Martin, turning all of his attention to Other-Martin.

“That’s brilliant though, there’s another Skip _and_ another Mum.” He remonstrated, gesturing clumsily with his arm at Other-Martin, who watched the proceedings with a bemused and concerned expression, “Is there another _me_?”

Douglas felt Martin stand up straighter and move away from the console; a quick glance told him that the Captain was peering into the rear of the flight-deck, though not moving past Douglas, for which he was grateful, as it meant that he didn’t have to rise and accompany him (for his own safety, _of course_ ). He could understand why; another Martin appears out of nowhere after a suspicious and terrifying accident – one grand old no. A whole MJN, and everything else that came with them? – it was about enough to persuade Douglas that maybe dear William had been right, and there really _was_ more in Heaven and Earth.

Other-Martin contemplated this, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth. After a few seconds, which were long enough to allow the trepidation to creep back, his shoulders sagged and he exhaled.

“Yes…yes there is.” He answered, and closed his eyes for a moment before stepping back and turning, gripping the doorframe to lean into the Galley; Douglas wondered what he was up to as the shock of red hair vanished momentarily, until he heard, “You can come in…I think they’re all right.”

Douglas thought this was high praise from someone who otherwise gave the impression that they were untrusted and unwanted; then again, he _was_ another Martin (and it _really_ should have bothered him that the thought was becoming so easy so quickly), so he supposed that stand-offish was just about right.

Not that Martin was too stand-offish anymore; the cautious smile that he was sending down to Douglas, one that practically screamed ‘ _please reassure me Douglas, please say that this is perfectly normal and that you’re going to fix it soon’_ , was sufficient evidence. Douglas smiled back, but was sure that it had come out far too wobbly. Martin just shrugged.

The entire exchange took only moments, and moments were all it took for a six-foot bundle of red uniform, scruffy brown hair, and bright grin to burst past Other-Martin and survey the mottled crew.

“Aw…Brilliant!” Arthur announced, and the new Arthur, _Other-Arthur_ , clapped his hands together, ignoring completely the way that Other-Martin was having to straighten his entire uniform with a disgruntled face and pursed lips.

“This is _brilliant_!” Other-Arthur expressed, spreading his hands out to address the three of them; Douglas found to his surprise that it was far easier to accept that this Other-Arthur was genuine (there was just something about Arthur- you couldn’t suspect a bad thing of him), “I could hear your voices from the Galley, but I wasn’t sure if you’d look like us…” he explained in Arthur’s ‘ _business-like’_ voice.

He knew that he was being ridiculous now, especially as Martin had let out a small, desperate, but real laugh, and Arthur was obviously fascinated by his alter ego, but Douglas couldn’t help but focus in on the way that, like Other-Martin, Other-Arthur’s eyes seemed to linger on _him_ , and a fleeting (but so much clearer on Arthur’s open face) imperceptible expression flittered across it before he became swept up in the excitement.

“And do we?” Arthur replied seriously. Douglas, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, couldn’t muster a rebuke, and he only just caught Martin dropping his head into his hand and asking, ‘ _Arthur, really?’._

“Oh _yeah_ , exactly the same!” Other-Arthur confirmed, grinning. When he looked up from his hands, Douglas observed as Other-Arthur’s smile waxed and waned and waxed again as he took in the charred walls, the dented panels, the burned, molten box containing the mysterious device that Douglas was now 100% sure had dragged them head-first into this mess, “What’s that?”

“I was going to ask that once we’d got everything calmed down.” Other-Martin stepped in, moving for the first time away from the doorframe and into the flight-deck. If anything, Douglas thought that it eased the tension, made it feel like (strange as it was) they were just people that had met by chance.

“Oh, I wouldn’t let that worry you.” Douglas drawled, “It’s just a machine of some sort that somehow caused us to be wherever we are – nothing interesting.”

Martin reacted quicker to the perplexed pinching of Other-Martin’s face than Douglas, or God forbid, Arthur.

“Ignore him…” he sighed, sending Douglas a tight lipped frown, and then meeting the gazes of the ‘Others’, “A man dropped it off this morning and…uh…we don’t know what it is, but….”

“Is there another Douglas?” Arthur cut across Martin and Douglas snapped ‘ _Arthur!’_ at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He may have been wondering the same thing, the looks that he was getting making his stomach do grotesque pirouettes, but the only reason Arthur was able to ask was _because_ Douglas hadn’t had the guts.

Other-Arthur opened his mouth as if to blurt, but shut it again quickly, his eyes clouding over with caution as he turned to Other-Martin for corroboration. This just begged more questions. Other-Martin may not have been whipped into shape like his was, but whoever had conditioned Other-Arthur had done a smashing job.

Martin too was staring at the doppelgangers with a curious expression on his face, his arms lacing around his chest as he settled back onto the control panel.

“That’s –a- that’s not important right now… _is it_?” Other-Martin said in a strained voice, bringing his hands together in a lame clapping motion, “How about you tell us more about that machine?”

The sinking feeling in Douglas’s gut swan-dived into a full on plunge, and the only thing he could do to stop the chill creeping up his spine from turning into a shudder was to surge upright, back straightening as his hands gripped the sides of the First Officer’s seat. He felt Martin’s hand skirt his shoulder, but the warmth vanished after a second.

“There _isn’t_ is there?” Douglas exclaimed guardedly; Other-Martin and Other-Arthur shared a conspiratorial glance (and _of course_ there were no Martin’s or Arthur’s anywhere that could manage a decent poker face – not one good enough to hide things from _him_ ) and shifted awkwardly on their heels.

“That’s not what I said…” Other-Martin insisted, pulling at his epaulets while trying to avoid meeting Douglas’s eyes. If Douglas knew two things though, it was that a)the shiftier Martin got, the closer he was to breaking down and revealing everything he knew, and b) that _he_ was too dogmatic to just let it go now that the worry had taken root.

“Then what _are_ you saying?” Douglas demanded; Martin’s hand was back, and when Douglas glanced over his shoulder he saw the Captain eyeing him with a cautious glint, visibly biting the inside of his cheek, “Is there another Douglas Richardson working for your MJN or not?”

Arthur sank into the Captain’s seat, and Other-Arthur tiptoed backwards until he was leaning back against the blackened wall. Other-Martin began winding his fingers together, pushing his shoulders back the way Martin did when he was making it absolutely clear that _he_ was the Captain.

“Well…ah….Douglas _Richardson?”_ Other-Martin stuttered, and Douglas knew then that there was no ‘Other-Douglas’ at the ‘Other-MJN’; he didn’t want to know why that might be, “ _Richardson?”_

He gaped as if searching for the right words, and then simply nodded resignedly.

Martin on the other hand, had no trouble finding words.

“But if you don’t have a Douglas, then how have you – how do you -” he just barely enunciated, his voice going hoarse with emotion and stubborn bewilderment. His hand remained on Douglas’s shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“ – _live_?” Douglas suggested weakly; he was glad that he was seated, and would have felt sorry for Other-Martin as his face turned a deeper shade of red (miles darker than his hair) and he looked pointedly at his feet.

“Yes Douglas, that’s what I meant.” Martin replied sarcastically, “How does he live without you.”

Arthur leaned across the gap between the seats to pat Douglas’s arm, a smile thinner than the usual adorning his cheeks.

The warm smile that threatened to creep onto the Captain’s lips made Douglas feel better (just a little bit), and he decided that it would be better for his mental health if he moved the interrogation back onto the grounds of mysterious machines.

Other-Martin and Other-Arthur were muttering amongst themselves, but they fell silent immediately when they caught sight of the crew shifting around to face them head on. Douglas had to admit, the more time passed, the easier it became to accept that there were two of his incompetent colleagues; the fact that there was no _him_ had yet to stop being unsettling.

“So we were trying to work out how you got -” Other-Martin began, but before he could finish, a piercing, intermittent squealing (that Douglas vaguely recognised) filled the air, making him pause.

Beside him, Martin began patting down his pockets, and Douglas realised that it was Martin’s ringtone. He quickly elbowed Martin in the side, making him drop his hands and glare, eyebrows pulling together, but Douglas just nodded towards Other-Martin, who had whipped a tatty mobile phone from his trouser pocket and was holding it to his ear.

He had turned away from the front of the flight-deck, and Other-Arthur looked torn between bouncing over and whiling away the time with them, and leaning closer and eavesdropping on the call. Not that he would have needed to, as Other-Martin wasn’t being quiet; he was speaking in the same tone of voice that Douglas only ever heard when Martin was talking to _him_ down a phone-line, so he assumed that whoever the call had come from wasn’t a welcome distraction.

“No-… will you just shut up and listen for – _yes,_ I did just say that - ” Other-Martin dropped his head into his free hand and exhaled loudly, scratching at his hair with the sleeve of his jacket; Douglas smirked, watching Martin (any Martin) get frustrated would never lose its charm, “Fine! Fine – wait, did you not even look around when you arrived?... _of course_ …No _don’t_ come looking for us! – _No_ , I’m not hiding anything - ”

Martin was watching the one-sided conversation with a strange expression on his face, and Douglas could have sworn that he was learning just what he actually looked like when he was…well, being himself.

Meanwhile, Other-Martin was getting to the section of the phone-call that Douglas liked to call the ‘wind-down’.

“ _Look_! Just stay exactly where you are…no, _no_ – just stay in the Porta-Cabin – I’m _not_ …Stop! Stop what you’re doing and sit down, _don’t even move_ …we’re coming to you – no, I said we’re coming to you...” Other-Martin trailed off, and his voice softened in tandem with his features, “I’ll see you in a minute.”

With a sigh, his shoulders sagging in defeat, Other-Martin pocketed his phone and turned back to the interior of the flight-deck. If Douglas had been less on guard, he would have inquired nonchalantly about who he had been talking to.

Luckily for him, Other-Arthur filled the void. The way he did it though, brought back to the forefront of Douglas’s mind that he was not the same Arthur that they knew. Whereas Arthur’s question would have been too loud, cheery, and brash in the way he would have leaned into Martin’s personal space, Other-Arthur’s smile was content, but held-back (too much like a _normal_ person), and the question was calm and inquisitive.

“Was that…?” Other-Arthur inquired seriously, cutting himself off with a failure of a covert glance towards Douglas, Martin and Arthur (and that awareness was positively unnatural on an Arthur-ish face).

“Yeah…” Other-Martin muttered, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth in thought.

Well that wasn’t helpful in the least.

“Hold on! What’s going on?” Martin demanded shrilly; apparently the loss of control of the situation had pushed the Captain back into action, “Who’s waiting in the Porta-cabin? Why are you taking us to see them?”

“Oh calm down, it’s not _that_ bad.” Other-Martin grouched, to the surprise of both Martin and Douglas; Douglas had to admit, despite what he would have said before it occurred, he wasn’t sure whether the fact that Martin apparently found himself an annoyance was hilarious or sad.

Martin didn’t dignify it with a response, instead crossing his arms over his chest and turning up his chin. Douglas took a moment to consider how petulance and red flush clashed well with the orange and yellow lights that flashed on the control panel below.

So, as usual, he took matters into his own hands.

“Listen…O- _Crieff_ …I for one could do with getting out of this smoke-filled flight-deck and into the open air, and I’m _certain_ that Arthur will go stir crazy if he’s forced to sit in silence for much longer.” Douglas broached the subject the only way he knew how, and to his surprise (given how the Other ones had reacted to him), both doppelgangers nodded, and Other-Arthur’s smile shone brighter as he noted that:

“I know _I_ would.”

“I _am_ getting a bit stiff,” Arthur added, suddenly appearing over the top of the Captain’s seat (Douglas hadn’t even noticed him sliding down it, slouching until his head was almost where the lower back should sit), “But I thought I’d let you lot get on with it and join in extra brilliantly later.”

“Well that’s settled then!” Douglas announced, preparing himself to rise from his seat; that would take some effort, “Let’s all go to your Porta-Cabin!”

“Wait, no, hold on!” Martin called, attempting to raise his hands and push Douglas back down at the same time, “We don’t even know why we’re here yet.”

Douglas rolled his eyes; what he wouldn’t have given to have just pretend that it was normal for them to have met their alter-egos and be discussing leaving their dented and burnt plane to reconvene in a Porta-Cabin that wasn’t their own.

“Maybe the thing in the box is a magic machine, and it pushed us through a magic portal.” Arthur guessed, drawing the attention of the room towards himself, as he was wont to do.

“Or it’s like in Doctor Who, and you’re all from a parallel universe!” Other-Arthur suggested, and Arthur’s face lit up while the three pilots exchanged wary glances.

“ _Brilliant!_ ” Arthur replied, grinning ear to ear, “That one sounds better Skip, Douglas, I think that’s what happened.”

“It sounds…reasonable.” Other-Martin agreed, looking to Martin to reassure him. Douglas tried not to feel affronted that he had been passed over; he supposed that Other-Martin hadn’t undergone the Pavlovian style conditioning that Martin had regarding Douglas and ‘always right’.

That, and he just wanted a quick solution. It occurred to him that they would need to work out how to get home if Arthur’s parallel universe theory was correct (and if it was – Carolyn was probably panicking as they spoke).

“Well, considering the mess before we passed out, that’s the best we’re going to get.” Martin concurred, and the two of them nodded. There was something surreal about watching two identical shocks of red hair, adorning two pale freckled faces tinted with a lingering red, moving up and down on either side of the flight-deck. Douglas’s head couldn’t deal with it.

“So are we going then?” he drawled, resting his head back against the seat. Martin gave him an apologetic smile and Other-Martin motioned for Other-Arthur to head out through the Galley (an order that was carried out with a ‘ _yes Skip’_ )

“I suppose we should.” Other-Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair before extending his arm, pointing the way from the flight-deck.

With a groan, Douglas allowed Martin to offer a hand (probably only offered in the first place because Martin still felt guilty for leaving him on the floor so long) and pull him to his feet. Arthur was up and bounding immediately, barrelling after his double, but the pilots shared one last loaded look before silently agreeing that there was no other option, and following Other-Martin from the plane.

***

 

As Douglas, Martin, and Arthur followed Other-Martin and Other-Arthur (and he’d really need to think up less wordy ways of referring to them in his head), Douglas was only mildly shocked to see that, just as promised, behind GERTI’s tail there lay a deep ditch stretching out across the grass, with little muddy mounds along the edges where the earth had been torn up.

There was definitely more than just universe hopping machines going on; they had decided to leave the ashen box to fester in the jump-seat. Martin had quibbled over leaving the device alone where anyone could get it, but it hadn’t taken much on Douglas’s part to convince him to leave the damned thing behind.

To his genuine surprise and pleasure, Other-Martin had actually helped, by suggesting that handling the machine too much might lead to them being thrown anywhere. And better the strange parallel people you know, that the unknown people you don’t.

True, it was a convoluted idea, but Douglas didn’t know what else he had expected.

While Arthur bounded ahead of the group, chatting animatedly to Other-Arthur, comparing his likes and dislikes in an obscure pantomime of seriousness that only Arthur could achieve, Martin stayed close enough to Douglas’s side that he could feel their arms brush through their uniforms (or it might have been the other way around – Douglas refused to contemplate it further than that), and Other-Martin wavered somewhere between the two.

Nobody really spoke until they reached the Porta-Cabin, and Other-Martin shouldered his way in front of the Arthurs. There was something unnerving about walking through somewhere that you knew by heart, and yet knowing that you had never truly been there before.

“Hold on…sorry, the door’s been wedging recently and you’ve got to give it a proper push.” Other-Martin muttered, turning to the side so that he could jiggle the handle and ram the door open with his shoulder.

The door didn’t open straight away; theirs did. Douglas tried not to feel stupid for finding something so insignificant upsetting, but it didn’t work as well as he had hoped. Martin was unusually bereft of comments as well, his eyes focusing somewhere on the chipped red paint of the door-frame.

Once the door finally swung open, and Other-Martin and Other-Arthur poured into the Porta-Cabin, Douglas held back, and was pleased to note that Martin, and even Arthur, was hesitant in following. They stepped back to allow Douglas first entry, which made him roll his eyes pointedly (he would wear them out if MJN didn’t crumble soon).

Before he had even entered fully, a smooth, feminine voice carried out to them, amused and irritated at the same time.

“ _Martin!_ You’ve finally graced me with your presence…and Arthur too, how nice.”

Douglas’s knowledge of women made him decide within seconds that whoever she was, she was not pleased at being kept waiting (although the fondness in her tone defied true disgruntlement). This must be the mysterious caller. He paused outside the door (Martin bumped into him, whispering an apology as he too heard the woman).

“Yes, I know, you’re here before us, _well done you.”_ Other-Martin replied testily, “But you need to-”

“Carolyn called while you were out,” the woman drawled, and there was definitely an air of ribbing in the way she teased him; Douglas began edging into the Porta-Cabin, and predictably, Martin and Arthur inched in his wake, “I told her that you were being weird, keeping secrets, and refusing to laugh at my one-liners.”

Other-Martin spluttered, and began a high-pitched tirade about how now Carolyn, or Other-Carolyn, was going to drop her day off and come in to check on them now.

As Douglas entered the room, the differences from their own struck him like a car (or maybe a bike) clipping him as he crossed the road. There were subtle pieces of décor and decoration that were filling spaces that should otherwise have been empty (like the various desk lamps placed in strategic points about the Porta-Cabin); nothing was missing, but that was too big a logical tunnel to be going down given the direction the day had been taking.

The most upsetting and worrying change (which brought back the churning and flips that had been lying dormant since Douglas had accepted that this world’s him didn’t work at MJN), was that though Martin’s desk was in its rightful place with only a few alterations, what would have been _his_ desk, on the opposite side of the room next to the sofa, was not.

From the look of it, the desk, and its scruffy fill, had been dragged across the room, so that it met Martin’s and formed a sort of obtuse horseshoe shape, with the two chairs on the inner side, and the mirror of Arthur’s wheelie chair on the outer.

The sofa had even been shoved in next to it; Douglas at least gave credit to whoever had made the decision to keep the two together.

Douglas shot a look over his shoulder, and saw that Martin and Arthur were gazing not about the room, as he had been, but at the ( _his_ ) desk’s occupant, who Douglas couldn’t believe he had missed for the sake of furniture.

A woman, who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty (although if Douglas had to guess he’d have leaned to the younger side), with long, rippling dark brown hair which had been hastily fastened into a messy fountain atop her head, and large brown eyes, was sprawling elegantly, feet up on the desk, a salacious smirk pulling at her lips as she watched Other-Martin’s critique with well contained bemusement, twirling a pen between her fingers.

Douglas could just about see why the other two were gaping, but couldn’t bring himself to be any more than appreciative of her looks. The mirth in her eyes however, that promised an interesting conversation at the very least; anyone who took pleasure from Martin-baiting was a friend of his.

“Martin… _Martin_.” She interjected, making Other-Martin grind to a halt; she smiled delightedly at her success and tapped the pen against her lips, “Don’t worry about Carolyn, I’ll sort her out when she gets here, and she’ll be on her merry way home before you know it.” She assured, nodding to Other-Arthur as if he were meant to be colluding, “Now…tell me what it is you boys have been hiding from me.”

“You mean you really didn’t see what everybody else has seen in the middle of the airfield?” Other-Martin retorted, an edge of disbelief colouring his tone.

The woman shook her head and leaned forward onto her elbows.

“No…I was on my phone from the car to the Porta-Cabin.” She replied dryly, her eyes fixing on Other-Martin as the smile never quite left her face, “However, I _could_ tell you the weather in the place that we’re _not_ flying to because our client is old and too lazy to call and tell us we’re not needed on stand-by anymore.”

Other-Martin made a sound half-way between a snort and a tut, shaking his head despairingly.

It occurred to Douglas that Other-Martin had become quite distracted, and that at this rate he’d been spending the rest of the day and into the evening hovering in a doorway with two imbeciles (as lovely imbeciles as they were) hovering just behind.

So he did the sensible thing, and barged right in.

“Hello!” introduced himself cheerfully, making the woman’s expression morph instantly into confusion and petulance as her eyebrows pulled together in the centre and the bridge of her nose crinkled, brown eyes closing off ever so slightly, “We’re Crieff’s secret.”

Her feet slid from the desk as she straightened up and her eyes scanned up and down Douglas’s form. Other-Martin groaned and threw his head back in frustration, and even Other-Arthur seemed cautious.

All Douglas could think was ‘ _oops_ ’.

She obviously hadn’t seen Martin and Arthur yet, as she tilted her head and demanded:

“And who’re you supposed to be? Another actor in a polyester uniform from a fancy dress shop? Why is that a secret?”

Other-Martin strode across the room as she rose to her feet, stepping out in front of her, hands held up in a non-verbal attempt to get her to sit back down (which she absolutely didn’t do; she just folded her arms over her chest and quirked an eyebrow at him).

“Listen, Deborah – I was trying to ease you in, but _now he’s ruined it_ \- so that you don’t panic when you see them-”

“You know I’m not a panicker Martin, now who is _they_?” the woman (Deborah, Douglas mentally filed that away).

At this, Other-Martin bit his bottom lip and turned to Douglas and his entourage. Douglas felt more than heard Martin and Arthur shuffle out from behind him.

“Hi…” Martin attempted weakly.

The effect was immediate. True to her word, Deborah didn’t panic; she did stiffen though. The loose movement of her limbs ceased, her lovely eyes widened and her expression froze as she took in Martin and Arthur; Douglas had to remind himself not to stare at her chest in an effort to check if she was still breathing.

Then her head tilted so that she was looking Other-Martin directly in the eyes (she was only about an inch shorter than him -  for all of their jokes, Five foot eight wasn’t _that_ short when compared to the average woman), and Douglas realised that there was an almost fearful confusion in them as if she were silently screaming at him to provide answers.

She turned to look over her shoulder at Other-Arthur (who just sort of shrugged and sank into the sofa, looking for all the world as if her were inspecting his nails – three guesses who had trained him) and when that gave her nothing her trepid gaze fell back to Arthur and Martin, who were standing as awkwardly as it was possible for a human to appear, stiff smiles and all.

“I, what – I don’t…Martin?” Deborah’s swaggering tone had all but evaporated; she looked back up at Other-Martin, who was still standing in her space, his hands having dropped to brush just over her lower arms, where they were hanging between tucking into herself and pointing at the intruders. That in itself put Douglas on the back-foot, as _his_ Martin had never been so comfortable around _any_ woman.

“Deborah,” Other-Martin said in a soothing voice that wasn’t at all soothing if Deborah’s stares over his shoulder at them were anything to go by, “I don’t actually know where they come from…but… _we’ve decided they’re from a parallel universe.”_ The last bit was rushed and loud, and enough to knock the woman out of her temporary paralysis.

The moment looked so fragile, with her on the brink of doing something, that Douglas decided that remaining silent was the best course of action, and hoped that the other two followed suit.

Deborah nodded and stepped back out of Other-Martin’s hold. As she spoke, her voice was still shaky, but it was an admirable effort.

“If I couldn’t see another you and Arthur, you know I’d be laughing at you?” she addressed Other-Martin, and it seemed that for now at least, she was going to pretend that they weren’t there to talk to.

Other-Martin nodded, tight lipped, hands clasped together, and allowed her time to carry on by herself. She gestured to each person in turn as their name was mentioned.

“So we have…another Martin Crieff…another Arthur Shappey … _oh dear lord_ …and…”Deborah’s gaze fell upon Douglas again, and this time he had to resist the urge to itch under the scrutiny, “So who is this? Where am I?”

“I’m First Officer Douglas Richardson.” Douglas answered for Other-Martin, offering his hand for the woman to shake, a winning smile on his face.

Rather than accept the friendly gesture and shake, Deborah stepped away from him, her posture stiffening once again. Her eyes re-widened, and she looked quickly between he and Other-Martin, and back again.

“You are joking….you _are_ joking…” she repeated tensely, and then walked towards Other-Martin before stopping herself and looking pleadingly up at him, squeezing her hands together, “Martin, tell me this isn’t…”

Douglas was beginning to get sick and tired of the weird reactions to him. Fine, there was no him here, but did everyone have to react as if he had three heads and a penchant for toasting baby seals.

“What is going on?” he demanded, glaring at Other-Martin the moment that he began to stutter.

Deborah shook her head and retreated behind her desk, dropping into her chair, leaving Other-Martin to muster himself and face Douglas with a stony and confident expression.

“Alright…maybe I should explain why we’ve been so…off.” He suggested, making the grimacing, unwilling face that Martin always made.

“Yes you bloody well should.” Douglas responded; he wished that Martin or Arthur would say something to stop him coming across as so rude, but _really_ , he was getting worried.

“Okay…” Other-Martin walked to stand beside Deborah’s desk (she had her arms extended ahead of her, and was inspecting her fingernails much like Other-Arthur was, except unlike him she was marginally better at hiding the way she peeked up at him), “Douglas…Martin and Arthur,” Other-Martin made a motion to show that he was addressing everyone, and then cleared his throat again before he caught Douglas’s furious stare and continued:

“This is my First Officer…Deborah Richardson.”


	4. Chapter Four

_“This is my First Officer…Deborah Richardson.”_

There was complete silence, sharp enough that nobody spoke, or even breathed, for fear of cutting themselves on its tangible grip on the atmosphere of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Douglas could see Other-Arthur twiddling his fingers, still slouched down into the sofa, his eyes wandering traitorously to the pilots; Other-Martin was standing, lips pursed, looking between Douglas and… _Deborah Richardson,_  who for her part remained hunkered down in her office chair, hands together and eyes fixed icily on _him._

Douglas didn’t dare tear his gaze from her, simultaneously waiting for her to laugh and say that the last statement had been a joke, and searching for _every single minute detail_ that would link her to himself. When he realised that _that_ was what he was seeing in her cold, but cautious stare, no amount of restraint could have repressed the shiver that ran through him.

Behind him, Martin seemed to get over the shock the fastest, as he began to splutter, and tread stiltedly to stand at Douglas’s shoulder (a welcome grounding force), gesturing with an outstretched arm at the seated woman.

“Ha ha, _very funny -_ ” he announced shrilly, and it was enough to make Douglas glance sideways at him, taking in the paleness of his skin underneath the red hair and the freckles, and the derisory curling of his lips.

It was enough for him to realise that if Martin was so set against his doppelganger’s words being true, then they were most definitely exactly that.

“No – it’s _true_!” Other-Martin insisted, shifting closer to the woman in order to place a demonstrative hand over her shoulder, squeezing imperceptibly as the limb touched the fabric of her shirt; Douglas watched her eyes flicker to the appendage, but as she didn’t respond further, he shook off the uncomfortable tension that her image brought, and focused on her colleague, “Deborah’s my First Officer –like Douglas is _yours!”_

Martin shook his head frantically, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth as he refused to process what was within arm’s reach. _Deborah_ just watched the proceedings tensely, but Douglas had a sneaking suspicion that she was as uncomfortable and wrong-footed as he was.

“You’re not honestly trying to tell me that- that _Deborah_ is … what? An opposite _Douglas?_ ” Martin mocked, and Douglas wanted to slap him out of that oh so familiar path down to his own grave digging, “ _No_ , I refuse to believe that.”

“ _Martin_ …” Douglas muttered under his breath; he needed to go and sleep. Go and sleep, and then be ready to approach the mess that was today with a clear head. That or give in to temptation and down a few glasses of brandy.

Luckily (and how often was _that_ word used in conjunction to the man), Arthur appeared at Douglas’s other side, hands deep in his pockets, and a peculiarly inspective expression on his face, with his nose scrunched.

“I don’t know Skip, she _does_ look quite a bit like Douglas.” Arthur noted, and Martin sent him an incredulous glare accompanied by a funny noise in his throat; almost as if on a second wavelength, Arthur zeroed in on Deborah’s face and gave a little wave, a cheerful smile flourishing, “Hello! I’m Arthur.”

Deborah’s face softened and her eyebrows raised slightly as she returned Arthur’s little wave, curling her hand intermittently and returning a dim smile.

“You know, it hadn’t occurred to me that you might be.” She replied lightly, a semblance of a joke in her tone, “Hello Arthur.”

“Hello.” Arthur repeated, his smile cranking up another notch. Douglas watched the exchange, the beginnings of bemusement taking root in his chest. It wasn’t _so_ bad really; only Martin seemed to be having trouble acting normal for the sake of sanity – and what else could anyone do but let him wear himself down.

“Uh…Deborah.” Douglas had nearly forgotten that Other-Arthur was in the Porta-Cabin, the strange ability that this Arthur had to sit back in a situation that theirs didn’t working like a charm; Deborah leaned forward in her chair to peer around Other-Martin, “We decided to call the people from the world we’re not from by their last names – so that we don’t get confused.”

Deborah looked up at Other-Martin momentarily, waited for the nod of assurance, and then smiled wanly at Other-Arthur.

“I’ll try to remember that.” She muttered. She turned back to her desk, running her eyes over the pens that were littered across the top (though Douglas couldn’t see papers of any kind), as if unsure of herself. If the deep breaths she was taking were anything to go by, it was taking a great effort to remain collected.

It was strange, but the more seconds that passed, the less the situation unsettled him; Douglas supposed that he had had more time to adjust, or maybe it was the exhaustion, but he couldn’t help the surge of sympathy that crept up on him.

With Martin still opening and closing his mouth, unable it seemed to argue, but unable to accept who Deborah was, the Other-Arthur and Other-Martin awkwardly occupying their Porta-Cabin, the latter’s hand rubbing small circles into his colleague’s shoulder (which Douglas was pointedly telling himself was a way to ground the both of them in the confusion), and Arthur still thrumming with observant activity beside him, conversation had lapsed into stilted distance.

“ _So..._ did you have plans for today or were you just going to stand around in the hope that something dropped in your lap?” Douglas inquired, and to his indignation, Deborah rolled her eyes and slouched back in her chair. At least she wasn’t stiff as a board anymore.

“ _Douglas_!” Martin scolded, snapping back to normal as quickly as he had short circuited.

Other-Martin shook his head, the red in his cheeks dipping away as he cleared his throat.

“Just the usual stand-by stuff, you know…paperwork, GERTI checks, re-evaluation of various formal documents -”

Deborah’s hand shot out and Other-Martin stuttered to a halt, glaring down at her along his nose. She ignored him though, and motioned sharply for Other-Arthur to stand up, which he did, with clumsy but efficient speed.

“Carolyn’s still coming,” she explained swiftly, snapping her fingers towards the door, “Go outside, sit by the car-park, and turn her away -”

 

Douglas had to admit, he was definitely seeing the similarities between he and Deborah, and he was rather enjoying the fact that the Richardson quick thinking was apparently something universal.

“Yeah…how do I do that? Because I think that might just make her want to come in more.” Other-Arthur asked warily, eager to obey, feet already carrying him to the door, but with enough prior knowledge of his own mother to know that he held the upper hand in this particular discussion.

“Just tell her Martin and I are having a row, she’ll just get in the car and leave.” Deborah suggested, shrugging with her whole body, making a half-guilty smile.

Douglas heard Martin huff beside him, but it was Other-Martin that caught his attention and kept it. True, he and Martin had never had actual _rows_ , but he supposed that different gender meant different handling of conflict – but Other-Martin didn’t huff. In fact, he just shook his head, and his eyes never shifted from Deborah’s face.

It then occurred to Douglas that it wasn’t just Deborah that was putting him ever so slightly on edge; it was the way that Martin interacted with her.

Then again, different gender.

Other-Arthur disappeared, his footsteps pattering outside before petering off. As another stretching silence pulled at Douglas’s nerves, Arthur shuffled over to perch on the edge of the sofa, looking between the pilots nervously.

It was an odd feeling, not knowing what to say. Douglas had rarely found himself in such situations, those including the fallouts before each wife left aside, and it was unsettling. If this was what Martin felt like when he stuttered out complete rubbish, then they needed to do more to bolster his self-esteem, because the feeling was horrible.

As if to certify that Deborah was his mirror image, she broke the silence with a smooth confidence, without appearing to be doing it deliberately.

“Martin darling, were you done with your schedule report?” she asked dryly, looking up at him with semi-provoking smirk on her face, the loose strands of her hair falling in front of her eyes.

Other-Martin sighed and closed his eyes, squeezing them momentarily before replying.

“No I wasn’t but I’m not starting again.” He bit out, glaring at her; though not removing his hand, Douglas acknowledged. He must have forgotten that it was there.

“Then sit _down_.” Deborah instructed, tilting her head violently in the direction of the other adjacent desk, “Having all these people stand around like lost lambs is setting my teeth on edge.”

“ _Fine._ ” Other-Martin sighed, and _finally_ (to Douglas’s relief, although he wasn’t sure why) removed his hand from her shoulder, striding behind her to drop gracelessly into his own creaking chair.

This was a good moment. Douglas readied himself, as Other-Martin began to surreptitiously stack the papers that had been left on his desk, and Deborah moved the pens about, stealing glances up at the still standing crew, to ask…he wasn’t sure, but he wanted to know more about Deborah.

If she was _him_ , but as a woman…she had ended up in exactly the same job, _of course_ she was him, but _how_ had that happened?

And then, in typical fashion, Martin beat him to it in the most Martin-ish, almost but not-quite insulting way that he was so good at.

The Captain, still ramrod straight, pointed accusingly at Deborah.

“I still don’t believe that you’re a parallel Douglas!” he insisted; his face was pale rather than flushed, speaking volumes of how stressed he was (Douglas wasn’t sure why Martin was getting so upset by the idea – it was worrying really) as he ran a hand through his red, and now very disorganised, hair, “Because, even though you’ve got the same last name, and you look similar…and you sound the same, sort of…you’re still female, with… _lady parts_ ,” at this Douglas turned to quirk an eyebrow at Martin, and caught Deborah doing the same out of the corner of his eyes, “…not that that’s a _bad_ thing – they’re great on women – _no_ , I just…you’re a woman!”

“ _Ye-es.”_ Deborah replied slowly, her forehead creasing curiously as she examined Martin’s _now_ flushed face, which had flashed red the moment that he realised what he had said. Other-Martin was biting his bottom lip, watching her as if waiting for an inevitable response.

“Yes, _well played_ Martin.” Douglas tried to help him out, but couldn’t bring himself to do so; he stepped back, putting a little space between them so that he could fully survey the dawning humiliation as Martin ran a hand over his face, “I’m sure you’ve boosted the woman’s ego perfectly now that it’s certain her _lady parts_ are noticeable for even the most oblivious of men.”

“Breasts.” Arthur piped up from his perch on the sofa; when all he received in response was four vacant expressions, he ploughed on, looking only a tad unsure of himself, “Mum said that you should call them breasts, because it makes women think that you’re mature…and not a ‘pathetic sod’…or it might have been…”

“Thank you…Arthur.” Deborah recovered smoothly; Douglas could only speak for himself (the Martins’ gaping aside), but there was something unnerving about Arthur talking about sex. In any form.

“You’re welcome.” Arthur remarked brightly, adopting the pleased grin that sprung from praise.

It wasn’t inspirational by any means (and Douglas had enough experience with drunkards at four in the morning to have heard every inspirational quote in the book), but it was obviously enough for Martin. The Captain looked awkwardly down at his hands and fiddled with his epaulets before meeting Deborah’s unimpressed glare.

Douglas decided that it would be altogether funnier to let him talk.

“Look, I’m _sorry_ , I just…” Martin sighed and his shoulders slumped in defeat, “I have a hard time believing that, given your different… _genders_ … you can be the same.”

“She is though.” Other-Martin cut in, bringing his chair right to the edge of his desk and sending every impeaching vibe  at his double; he exchanged a fleeting, gentle smile with Deborah and then addressed Martin and Douglas, who held his tongue for the sake of learning more, “I know they’re a _bit_ different…but after listening to Douglas for five minutes, I knew he was _just like_ my Deborah – it’s like…you could give GERTI a new paintjob, but she’d still rattle and fall to pieces, _because_ she’s GERTI.”

“ _Charming_.” Douglas, retorted; he watched, amused and indignant as Deborah leant across her desk, rolling her chair across to haphazardly shove Other-Martin’s arm out from under his chin.

“Remind me never to let you defend me in court.” She admonished, but Douglas could see the subtle twitch of her lips. He wasn’t sure he understood. True, Other-Martin had been insulting in a Martin-ish manner, but there was nothing to smile about.

Scold until he learnt better maybe.

Other-Martin was brushing her away, shooing Deborah back to her station, as Martin rubbed his hand under his chin and strode over to the sofa, letting himself fall in next to Arthur.

“But _how_ is that possible?” he bemoaned, looking (predictably) to Douglas for answers.

_“Magic!”_ Arthur suggested, but when he only received half-shrugs in reply, he closed his mouth and sighed in an entirely un-Arthur-ish way. It hadn’t occurred to Douglas that Arthur, of all people, might actually have been as put-out by the day’s insanities as everyone else.

He tried a smile, but he didn’t think that Arthur saw it.

If he couldn’t cheer Arthur up, then Douglas was going to at least have a bash at answering Martin’s questions.

“ _Well_ , if we go by the nature-nurture debate, then we can assume that being born different genders has not affected our personalities, that we were born the same person in different bodies, and that we have merely adopted the gender intonations that any other would.” Douglas explained heartily, pleased to see that both Martin and Arthur nodded along.

He wasn’t pleased to hear Deborah huff, and the pens skitter across her desk as she let her arms fall loosely onto them.

When he turned his attention back to their conjoined desks, Douglas was mildly surprised to see that though Other-Martin was nodding slowly, eyeing Deborah cautiously, the woman herself was glaring, jaw set, up at him, something unidentifiable bubbling under the surface.

“ _Of course_ , you’re forgetting the major part of the nature-nurture debate – the part where society influences gender and _who we are_.” Deborah spat, and Douglas became suddenly aware of the fact that he was the only one left standing in the centre of the Porta-Cabin, but didn’t want to rectify that in that moment, “I suppose that as a _man_ , you were never brought up as a girl, with _girl_ toys and _girl_ ideas of how you shouldn’t behave as openly as I do, or spoon-fed feminism and the dangers of being a girl from a young age?” Deborah’s face hadn’t split, and her voice didn’t waver, but Douglas recognised the well held anger, “And I doubt you had the trouble of being an outsider in a male dominated industry, or that you had to act like _one of the lads_ and pretend that you didn’t care if your colleagues were _groping_ you, just so that you’d be successful enough to _progress_ in said industry?”

Douglas wished that Martin would say something. Arthur could remain quiet, but Martin needed to do something other than just sit, pressed back into the sofa, eyes wide and sad as they trailed over the pouting First Officer.

Even Other-Martin looked shocked, though he at least had leant forward, arm outstretched as if to fall on Deborah’s arm. He didn’t make the stretch to reach far enough though, and Douglas knew in the pit of his stomach that he had to be the one to speak.

“So I take it you _left_ Air-England?” Douglas inquired, and immediately the tension in the room broke.

Deborah scoffed and shook her head, glaring bitterly into the middle-distance.

“ _No_ , I didn’t leave because of sexism, give me _some_ credit.” She drawled, rolling her dark eyes, “I got sacked for stealing – although in my defence, I _had_ paid for those, it was all above board.”

“Deborah, smuggling is illegal whether you think it’s okay or not.” Other-Martin remarked, and only withered slightly at the raised eyebrow and pursed lips that she directed at him.

The discomfort had returned, but it was washed over by a tide of something else that Douglas couldn’t put his finger on.

“Well…I suppose you’re not _that_ different after all.” Martin commented from the sofa. He was resting his chin on his elbows, on his knees, and was attempting to smile winningly at Deborah, and failing that, encouragingly at Douglas, who shook his head in warning.

Deborah’s stubborn mask dropped, and her eyes traced the desk before rising again, meeting Douglas’s. He was sure that she was going to apologise, though he wouldn’t have, but at that moment, Other-Arthur burst through the door, letting the midday draft curl in around their feet.

“Mum’s gone, she actually believed me!” he announced, and Douglas could only nod as Arthur let out a ‘ _Brilliant’_ and Deborah muttered ‘ _well done’_ ; Other-Arthur’s eyebrows knitted and squeezed his lips together before continuing, “She also said that if your row was just some weird form of flirting, then you had to take it elsewhere.”

Other-Martin spluttered and went red (Douglas didn’t refrain from smirking, as his Martin also flushed at the second-hand embarrassment – it was that or feel hugely uncomfortable with the implication that any form of _him_ might be flirting with any form of _Martin_ ).

Deborah just rolled her eyes, sighed out a laugh, and replied,

“Arthur, it may have escaped your notice, but we’re not actually having a row.”

“ _Or_ flirting!” Other-Martin insisted.

“I know, but I couldn’t tell Mum that could I?” Other-Arthur answered, in his ‘I’m not a clot’ voice, he looked towards the sofa, but seeing that it was occupied, made a bee-line for the wheelie chair opposite his pilots.

“That would just be _weird_.” Martin interjected, and Douglas shared a covert glance of agreement with the Captain.

Just then, the phone in what Douglas assumed was Other-Carolyn’s office rang, a dull, lulling tone that nonetheless grated at the ears.

He rashly considered offering to get it, before remembering where he was.

“I’ve got it.” Deborah sighed, rising sluggishly to her feet, dramatically swinging her hair out of her eyes. Other-Martin hummed in agreement, and shifted his chair inwards so that she could push past behind him.

Douglas watched as she did so…watched as Deborah sauntered past behind Other-Martin…and as she passed behind him, brushed her hand caressingly over one shoulder to the other… not looking down, as if it were a subconscious action.

Other-Martin looked up at the motion, smiling softly at her back as she disappeared through the ratty wooden door, but he didn’t say a word, his gaze dropping back to the group as if nothing had happened.

Except Douglas had seen it happen. It had made the very blood in his veins freeze and his brain stuttered to a momentary halt.

And the frozen, astounded expression on Martin’s face, the wide eyes, the red cheeks, and the gaping mouth as he sought out Douglas’s gaze for confirmation, told him that Martin too had just seen that happen.


	5. Chapter Five

As Douglas met Martin’s befuddled stare, he was kicked heartily back to his senses. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Other-Martin watching the two of them warily (and so was Other-Arthur as a matter of fact), and he realised that the man had no idea what had made the two strange pilots freeze in what could only be imagined as a comical tableau.

Thankfully (and he really was outdoing himself today) Arthur shifted so that he was upright on the sofa, righting the slump that he had fallen into, and leant forward on his elbows, his eyebrows collecting in curiosity.

“Who do you think’s on the phone?” he inquired, motioning with a nod towards the door to Other-Carolyn’s office, which had been pulled shut behind Deborah, leaving them with a view of the door-length mirror that painted a distorted reflection of the gathering.

Other-Martin shrugged, bringing his hands together over his chest as he settled back into his seat and shaking his head with an understated tut of bewilderment.

“It’s probably Mum calling for Deborah.” Other-Arthur suggested, looking to Other-Martin for a confirming nod of realisation before continuing, his body following the imperceptible swing of his chair as he twiddled in with his feet, “She did that last time they had a fight, and it distracted them enough for them to cool down.”

Douglas nodded, unsure of what to do with that information, as Arthur noted that that was a clever idea, and that his own mother would come up with something similar. He watched Other-Martin’s face tinge pink, but the man kept his eyes down, tracing his desk, and the corners of his lips drooped slightly.

“Do you and Deborah…uh…do you?” Martin began to ask lowly, readjusting himself on the sofa and clearing his throat with a hand clenched over his mouth; Other-Martin looked up, his eyes widening slightly and paling enough that the freckles on his cheeks stood out a fraction starker, “Do you and Deborah fight often?”

Other-Martin shook his head quickly, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth.

“No – no we don’t!” he assured them, bringing his hands open in front of him as if to bar any misinterpretations, “We’re good friends, _really_ , we are – it was just that one time.” Other-Martin insisted, his expression slipping into minor frustration as he clocked the doubtful exchange of glances between Douglas and Martin, “She crossed a line with her reckless behaviour just so that she could show off with the bears, and probably just to annoy me…I got angry when I was telling her off afterwards, she got upset and shouted back – that was all!”

Other-Martin swallowed heavily as his explanation drew to a close, chest heaving ever so lightly as he looked down, and adjusted his tie in a motion reminiscent of Martin’s mechanisms of self-control.

Nevertheless, the way that the man withdrew so suddenly, as if sucking in an unwelcome surge of emotion, made Douglas’s mind wander down uncomfortable routes. The story sounded awfully like a reinvention of his own escapades over Qikiqtarjuaq…except, all that he had received after that was a stony silence, and Martin’s grudging acceptance as the lemon on his hat made him give up any attempt at order.

From the sound of it, in this universe, Other-Martin and Deborah had ended up getting far too emotionally invested in their side of the argument, and Douglas couldn’t begin to imagine why. That in itself was unsettling.

Martin it seemed hadn’t been able to formulate a response, and was merely nodding, an abashed shadow over his eyes. He tried to catch Douglas’s gaze, to fill the silence that had fallen as Other-Martin seemed unwilling to carry on; he was pursing his lips unhappily.

“Wow…” Arthur sighed, and Douglas peered around the Captain to observe the steward’s reaction (which promised as always to be a point of discussion if nothing else), “That doesn’t sound very good.”

“No, they both sounded really upset.” Other-Arthur replied helpfully, in a dour tone that didn’t sit well with Douglas; Other-Martin huffed, and snapped that ‘ _that’s fine Arthur, they’ve got it’,_ arms folding aggressively over his chestbut was ignored, as Other-Arthur ploughed on demurely, “But I thought that they’d get back to talking like they usually do, so I went to hoover GERTI again, and when I got back, they had.”

“Well of _course_ we did, we’re professionals.” Other-Martin muttered, his eyes flickering between Martin, Douglas, and Arthur, “I apologised, a little while later Deborah wandered over, we hugged, and the issue was behind us.”

Another covert glance told Douglas that neither he nor Martin were quite sure of how they should have taken that, and Arthur was simply nodding sagely. The subtle awkwardness that had crept into the Porta-Cabin settled heavily all at once, and there was nothing left to do but wait for Deborah to return.

 Douglas took the momentary distraction to wander purposefully to the sofa and perch uncomfortably on the arm beside Martin, who glanced up, attempting a smile which faded into a tight lipped grimace.

The anxious flush had begun to fade from his freckled cheeks, and his blue eyes were tired but alert. It was nice to know that Douglas wasn’t the only one feeling the strain; he was just about coming to terms with where they were, and who they were talking to, even this female version of himself – but that only opened more mental doors to stumble through.

To his relief, there wasn’t time to contemplate all the things that he could have, as the door to Other-Carolyn’s office swung open with an unhealthy click, and Deborah strode back into the room, exhaling dramatically and running a hand through her hair, pushing it back as she came to rest on the outer rim of the conjoined desks, just beside Other-Arthur.

“Dare I ask?” Douglas intoned, earning a sideways stare and quirked eyebrow underneath the carelessly resting locks of brown hair.

“Carolyn.” Deborah replied dryly; she dropped her head back, closing her eyes and shaking out the tension in her shoulders with an audible groan before rolling her neck to its former position and meeting Douglas’s gaze with wide, exasperated eyes, “She talked nonsense at me for ten minutes – _honestly_ , I’m not stupid; I _know_ when I’m being kept in one place.”

“We thought it’d be that.” Arthur piped up, sounding unjustifiably proud of himself. Douglas tried not to roll his eyes, but this only meant that he was able to see the stiffly indulgent smile that Deborah sent his way.

“A _very_ well done.” She drawled; Other-Martin leant across his desk to nudge her arm, retracting his hand the moment that he did. She spared him only a fleeting glance and a small sigh, before scanning the room, or more accurately the people in it, with a calculating glint in her eyes that Douglas was certain only he could see.

It made sense; he had been doing the same, although not nearly so obviously. It was the morbid fascination that waxed and waned in his chest. If she was really same as him (and he was noticing differences, subtle as they were, but that didn’t change the fact that her mind was just as sharp, just as centred), then she was dying to know more.

It wasn’t even anything in particular…it was just a need for _more knowledge_ that Douglas hadn’t felt in living memory.

Beside him, he felt Martin shift uncomfortably under the woman’s gaze, and when Douglas looked up, she was pushing herself away from the desks and sauntering up behind Other-Arthur. The steward glanced upwards as she placed her hands gently on his shoulders and gave them a companionable squeeze.

At this, both Martin and Arthur shared a bewildered, almost mystified look, but appeared too captivated by the strange show of affection to comment. Douglas almost wished that he weren’t so dignified (as much as was possible) that he couldn’t react in a fit of affronted confusion.

“Arthur, you couldn’t be a lamb for me, could you?” Deborah inquired, and Douglas didn’t know whether to be proud or insulted by the honest smile overlaid with such blatant false inquisitiveness.

Other-Arthur, rather than beaming and offering his aid in whatever frantic form in came, as theirs would, simply placed a hand over Deborah’s left and smiled cheerfully at the request.

“Sure, what do you need?” he asked, his forehead crinkling as if he were attempting to work out the answer before it was provided.

Deborah shrugged nonchalantly, and Douglas could practically feel the play coming. He took a second to watch Other-Martin sigh and roll his eyes, before they latched back onto Deborah’s back, an infinitesimal smile haunting his lips.

“I just thought that seeing as you and…the Other-Arthur…both seem fine with this whole _situation_ , that you wouldn’t mind adopting the role of tour-guide.” Deborah explained, and Other-Arthur nodded slowly, comprehension dawning sluggishly over his face, “It might be fun for you to take your _double_ on a tour of GERTI and the airfield, swap stories, learn a bit more about each other’s lives.”

“That _does_ sound fun.” Other-Arthur corroborated, “I’ve always thought I’d be good at tours – like if I could take passengers around the places we visit.”

“Aw, that sounds brilliant!” Arthur joined in the conversation, leaning far enough forward that he was perched on the edge of the sofa, “I’m up for a tour if you’re giving them…and I can find out how much of the same we _actually_ are – like how many of my secrets you know.”

“Have you managed to _keep_ any secrets, Arthur?” Douglas interjected; as much as he was enjoying watching the lazy batting of banter and benign waffle, he just couldn’t feel like himself without interrupting from the side. He needed more than anything right now to feel like himself.

“I doubt it, considering how terrible a liar he is.” Martin said; his voice had returned to its usual timbre, and Douglas thought that he were testing the metaphorical waters in terms of acting normal. The Captain, pale as he was, attempted a least a winning smile that faltered when he tried to meet the eyes of his company.

“We’re assuming that it’s universal then?” Douglas inquired in an undertone, but the _‘hey’_ that both Arthur’s emitted wasn’t even enough to mask the low chuckles that both pilots emitted.

“I don’t know…” Douglas looked up from Martin’s newly red face as Other-Martin spoke, and was met with the sight of the pilot tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully with his pen, “I mean, Arthur can be pretty sneaky in an Arthur-ish way…I think it’s too much time with Deborah to be honest.”

“That’s not a _bad_ thing!” Deborah remonstrated, hunkering down gracefully, arms looping around Other-Arthur’s neck to give him a brief hug, which he returned awkwardly (and Douglas was once again uncertain about his double – she kept throwing him off), before retreating just as quickly, finally leaning once again on the desk, “We’re…um…what is it those rappers say about their friends?”

She extended a hand to Other-Arthur, swirling her hand for him to answer quickly while her own face pinched in thought.

“Oh…uh…they say they’re ‘ _tight’_ ” Other-Arthur filled in remarkably quickly; then again, their Arthur was remarkably knowledgeable about popular culture (at least the last five years of popular culture, if nothing else).

“Exactly!” Deborah exclaimed dramatically, looking over her shoulder at Other-Martin, a smirk overtaking her face, and then peering down at Douglas and Martin defiantly, “Arthur and I are… _tight_ …no…” her face immediately morphed into an image of self-disgust, her head dropping down to glare at the floor, “No, _no_ , that sounded ridiculous coming out of my mouth – Martin why did you let me say that?”

“ _Let you?”_ Other-Martin retorted, pouting mockingly at his colleague’s expression of distaste, “The day I’m able to _let_ you do things will be a day to be remembered.”

Deborah muttered something incomprehensible, leaning over the desk and into Other-Martin’s space, which he must have nonetheless understood, as his chest heaved with the effort of holding in the laugh that brought on the toothy grin.

The queasy feeling was back. Douglas wasn’t sure what was bringing it on; he wasn’t usually envious, or upset, or, well _anything_ about seeing other people’s happiness, or watching the lives of others…but there was something about watching this crew that made every worst aspect (he thought bitterly) of his personality rushing out until it made him feel sick.

He didn’t want to imagine what it was doing to the ever angst-ridden Captain. Which meant that it was time to sort it out – as always.

“Weren’t you considering a tour a moment ago?” he drawled, and had to stop himself from biting his tongue at the discontent that was evident in his tone. The schooled pleasantness on Deborah’s face flittered momentarily into something more vulnerable, or it might have been understanding (Douglas honestly couldn’t be sure and it was driving him insane). She and Other-Martin separated  (the latter looking sheepish), and Douglas felt his own Captain shift fractionally closer, as if the light weight of his arm demonstrated a (granted very deep down) sense of solidarity.

“Yes, yes I was.” Deborah said quickly, glancing around the Porta-Cabin, and then clapping her hands in Other-Arthur’s direction, “Go on Arthurs – mush!”

Arthur was the first to spring to his feet, though Other-Arthur wasn’t far behind. It occurred to Douglas unbidden that this was a perfect way to ensure a lack of Arthurs, and therefore allow more space to think, and less people to mentally manoeuvre around. It was almost shameful that he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“We’ll see you all in a bit, yeah?” Other-Arthur asked the group at large as he headed first towards the door to the Porta-Cabin.

“Take as long as you need.” Other-Martin replied, the stilted encouragement lacing his tone just lightly enough that it wasn’t picked up on by the Arthurs.

“ _Really_ , just spend ages if you need to.” Deborah added; she hoisted herself lightly up onto the edge of the desk, and save for a frustrated dragging of his lips through his teeth, Other-Martin didn’t react.

“Thanks.” Other-Arthur called, offering a little wave. Douglas returned it half-heartedly, and when the door was yanked open (stuttering a bit as it wedged) he shivered a bit in the cold draft that clambered in.

Arthur was still surveying the group with pseudo-pensive eyes, a subtle smile on his face.

“You know,” he announced, addressing Deborah and Other-Martin, who met his statement with the same blank but expectant half-grimaces that Douglas _knew_ he and Martin wore at times like this, and didn’t envy them at all, “It’s really nice how close you all are – like a proper gang.”

Other-Martin simply looked cautiously to Deborah, and upon seeing that she hadn’t responded, nodded in assuming agreement, his cheeks turning red and making the freckles burn. Douglas looked down as Martin scoffed, and wasn’t sure what to make of the sardonic smile on his Captain’s face.

He didn’t know what to make of anything really. It was like being lost in a terrifying, inter-dimensional sea, where people made assertions on the crew, and he actually considered the feelings that came with said statements.

In the end, Douglas could only resort to what he had always been able to rely on.

“ _Isn’t it just.”_ He drawled, fairly certain that there was an imperfect balance of sarcasm, bitterness (though why he couldn’t tell) and exhaustion, just as the same words, _‘Isn’t it just’_ drifted warmly from feminine lips, and Deborah’s face seemed to light up for just a moment as fondness tinged her sigh.

Douglas met her stare for only a moment, before it became too unsettling, and he physically turned instead to watch the Arthurs bumble through the door, chattering away amongst themselves about god only knew what.

The moment that the door closed, he was forced (by his own sense of propriety) to turn back to the centre of the room. The energy it took nearly pulled him sideways, which would have been less awkward to explain to Martin had it been just them.

As it was, he shared a short, meaningful, overall unhappy glance with his Captain, who was still pale, whose freckles still stood out on his cheeks, and whose blue eyes were caught part way between confident and mental breakdown.

When he felt able to look away, sure that he and Martin were on the same page, Douglas looked up to address the fact that they had been left alone with their parallels, who once again separated as if they had been whispering to each other.

Douglas came to the horrible realisation that all four of them were waiting for someone else to take the lead, himself included.


	6. Chapter Six

The awkward silence, that rested taut as a bow on a string on the world’s largest violin, continued to fill the space between the pilots. Douglas inhaled and exhaled steadily, drawing slight comfort from Martin’s solid presence on the sofa beside him.

The Captain seemed to be leaning in as well, and when Douglas looked down at him, his thin, worn hands were pressed together, the tips of his fingers trailing his lips as he snuck the occasional glance at his colleague. Martin didn’t look scared anymore, but he was stressed – the creases in his forehead said that much.

Douglas wished that he could offer something useful, but he was struggling to think of anything that might comfort his Captain beyond a companionable pat on the shoulder; things would have to get a lot worse, or more drink addled, before he did that.

He turned back to the ‘Others’, momentarily reassured by the fact that neither Deborah nor Other-Martin appeared to know what to say. Other-Martin was still rotating imperceptibly in his chair behind his desk, hands steepled under his chin, and Deborah was resting tensely against the other side, lips pursed; both sets of eyes were drifting from here to there, tracing everything from the grotty floor, to their own feet. It was nice knowing that they weren’t going to be murdered by their strange doubles – Douglas had to admit to himself, that he had been entertaining the thought.

Martin inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders back. As Douglas tilted his head to watch his Captain centre himself, taking control as he was wont to try and do, he saw from the corner of his eye Deborah and Other-Martin exchange a covert glance, nodding as if silently communicating, before fixing their eyes on Martin the moment he cleared his throat.

“ _Well_ ….now that Arthur and, uh, Arthur have gone…” Martin said confidently, making a slight clapping motion with his hands; Douglas felt a spark of pride and relief at Martin’s attempt to reassert some direction in the madness, but this dulled as Martin swallowed, head drooping as he caught the expectant stares of the doubles, and looked up at his colleague beseechingly, “Now that they’ve gone…Douglas! What are _your_ thoughts?”

Douglas sighed dramatically; what else was there to do?

He was sadistically satisfied to see that Deborah was watching expectantly, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity, giving away the nervousness that her otherwise controlled face hid. Everyone was wrong-footed…that was good…he supposed. It made _him_ feel less incompetent.

And of course, he _was_ Douglas Richardson. He could rise above the others and bring about a beneficial result if it killed him.

“I wouldn’t want to suggest something that might detract from whatever it was that _Deborah_ had planned.” He drawled, smirking charmingly at the woman; her eyes widened fractionally, and then it was as if sardonic shutters slammed down behind her lids as her lips curled upwards, “I presume that you sent the Arthurs away for a reason?”

“I thought that we,” she gestured with her hand at to the group at large, pausing to smile for a moment at Other-Martin, who nodded back with a shy smile of his own, “Could use some time without mindless interruptions. There are obviously things that we all need to discuss.”

At this her eyes fell hungrily on Douglas, and he knew that he would have been unsettled, had it not been for the fact that he could read _exactly_ what she was thinking. She wanted to talk to _him_ as much as he wanted to talk to _her_.

He needed to know… _hell_ , he wasn’t sure. He just…she was different, but the same! Everything was so _similar_ , down to the patient but anxious and desperate to understand and act tension in the set of Martin and Other-Martin’s jaws as they both leaned forward on their elbows, one on the desk, and the other on their knees.

But it was different. Even the _room_ was subtly altered! The lamps were a strange and unwelcome addition, the arrangement of the desks was unnerving, and as Douglas had time to observe the Porta-Cabin in the seconds between dialogue, he had noticed that there was a coat rack in the corner by the door, that Other-Martin’s desk wasn’t as neat as it should have been (with the papers merely laid atop each other, and pens askew – a far cry from the neurotic placement of everything on _his_ Martin’s desk), and at the risk of sounding too dramatic, it was as if the light streaming in through the window shone with a deeper hue, glowing more than beaming as it licked the back of the doppelgangers’ forms.

And all of that had changed because there was no Douglas. There was only Deborah…and was that better? Douglas didn’t know.

There it was…dawning on the First Officer with the stealth of borrowed robes. He had to know if this was better. He was getting on a bit, and in recent months had begun to look back on his life and count the mistakes that he had made, tally the failures. Wonder if he could have been better.

What if Deborah’s life was better? What if Deborah Richardson was better than Douglas Richardson?

Both Martin and Other-Martin started speaking simultaneously, spluttering to a halt. Where Martin tensed in his haughty manner, Other-Martin sighed and motioned for the Captain to go ahead. Deborah had him very well trained, Douglas thought, before brushing the words away.

“I was just going to ask – well...” Martin shifted in his seated position so that he could address his double, “um…what’s Deborah like?”

Douglas’s head snapped around to stare down at Martin, who glanced innocently back, his face holding no trace of understanding why neither his colleague, nor the woman across the room seemed pleased.

Other-Martin shot Deborah a cautionary glance, as her eyebrows pinched together and the tension in her shoulders released, only to allow her hand to fly up and push her floppy brown hair from her face and over her head.

“She’s…uh…I mean…”

“Why does it feel as if I’m being talked about as if I’m not in the room?” Deborah drawled petulantly, looking dramatically into the middle distance before narrowing in on Martin, who to his credit, didn’t waver the way he might have if it had been any other woman.

Oh, he blushed and meshed his fingers together, but he was fairly fluent.

“If you _are_ like Douglas, then you’ll just tell me how ‘wonderful’ you are and list _my_ failings to make it sound even better.” Martin replied, his tone an intricate tiptoe between bitterness and fondness.

“True, I _am_ magnificent.” Deborah muttered in response, but her head drooped and her eyes disappeared behind her lashes as she looked down to examine her fingernails.

Douglas didn’t need any help recognising _that_ tone of voice. That didn’t mean that he was about to react to anything but his own, very loud, torrent of thoughts and emotions.

“Why the sudden interest Martin?” Douglas inquired, smiling jauntily for his Captain, unable to imagine what his own expression must have been to prompt the uncertain half-smile to flicker on the Captain’s own, “Don’t tell me you’re getting bored of me already.”

“No of course not!” Martin insisted, shaking his head almost unconsciously. Douglas would have returned a snappy retort, just to set him on edge but stop him worrying, but Other-Martin’s loud, deliberately obnoxious sigh made him turn.

Deborah was also watching, Douglas noticed, calculating, as if preparing herself mentally to react before her colleague had even spoken. That said, the way her eyes traced his freckled face was soft, and not malicious, so there wasn’t any chance of things kicking off (although he had to admit, he was mildly fascinated by the idea of he and Martin – or _she_ and _Other-Martin_ actually being invested enough in something to shout over it).

“Okay – how about everyone stops harassing each other, and we all start discussing what’s _really_ important?” Other-Martin stressed; his hands moved into a non-threatening position, but other than that, Douglas thought that he looked to be the same as his own frazzled Martin when the day had worn him down.

Deborah nodded as if she were listening, but Douglas favoured a more up-front approach.

“What would that, be dare I ask?”

“How to send you back!” Other-Martin retorted, slouching in his chair, as if defeated already; his hands continued to gesticulate before him, “You can’t _stay_ here!”

“It’s not like we don’t have time though is it?” Martin shot back with a self-deprecating scoff; Douglas watched as Martin drew a hand though his ginger hair and back to rub at the back of his neck, which glistened slightly with perspiration, “I mean, Carolyn is probably panicking about her son and her plane, but it’s not like I’ve got anywhere to be.” His eyes glazed for just a moment, before they slid back to Douglas, accompanied by a sheepish shade, “Although…you probably do…”

“Well yes, I…” Douglas started, and then trailed off; the only thing that was important to him, that wasn’t there with him in the insane mess they had fallen into, was his daughter (Douglas couldn’t ignore the spurt of self-hatred that localised in his chest when he realised that he hadn’t yet thought her), and even she would not miss him for at least another week. Douglas gave himself a small shake, nothing noticeable, and tried to recapture him nonchalance, “I do, but it’s nothing that can’t wait. We can risk taking our time and doing it right, rather than rushing in and potentially killing ourselves while messing with machinery that we don’t understand.”

There was a collective hum of agreement, and Other-Martin looked almost guilty that he had suggested such a thing. Douglas eyed Deborah, wanted even more now to know more about her, but unsure of how to go about talking to her alone. Of course, he _knew_ how, but the idea of executing the necessary actions was difficult.

But it had to be done somehow. She wouldn’t speak openly in front of Other-Martin, and definitely no in front of Martin. Douglas knew this as surely as he knew that he would never, ever, be telling Martin the logic behind wanting to split them all up.

However, to his surprise (although if he took the time to consider it, he wasn’t surprised at all), Deborah surged into action before he could so much as clear his throat.

With a less than dainty swing of her arms, the woman was half way across the room, rotating so that she could address the group with a charming smile and half-frozen eyes that thawed only fractionally when she raised a hand to tell Other-Martin to sit back down (he had made as if to rise with her).

“It has occurred to me that I am the only person that hasn’t seen your plane, or this machine you mentioned earlier.” Deborah drawled playfully, seamlessly manipulating the Captains in a way that made Douglas a little happier to call her his double, “This makes me feel rather left out, and one way to rectify this would be for Douglas,” at this she nodded suggestively at Douglas, who took that as his cue to rise (his joints clicking from the stiffness) to his feet, “to join me in taking a look.”

“Wait – you want to leave me here with-” Martin reacted affronted, making to stand until Douglas pushed him back down with a rough hand on his shoulder.

“I think I should come with you-” Other-Martin was telling Deborah, who shushed him with a finger to her lips, and when he tried to keep talking, a fleeting finger to his.

“We will be perfectly fine.” She assured her colleague, who, going by the scrunched nose and blanched cheeks, was not convinced. Martin, for his part, looked as if Douglas had told him to wait for the gallows, “and _you_ ,” Deborah pointed at Martin, who squeaked in an undignified manner while still maintaining his haughty disgruntlement, “ _You_ , need to relax, and have a nice chat with my Martin here.”

“Quite right.” Douglas chimed in, smirking encouragingly at Martin; when all he got in return was for the Captain to slump back into the sofa and fold his arms over his chest, Douglas extended his arm in a gentleman-like fashion, “Shall we make our may out?”

“I believe we shall.” Deborah replied dryly, hooking her arm through his; as Douglas strode to the Porta-cabin door, he had just got it open, a cold draft whistling in, when Deborah pulled back.

Douglas observed, bemused, as she waved a finger at Other-Martin, and smiled sardonically.

“Now you behave while I’m gone.” She instructed, a laugh in her voice. Other-Martin exhaled sharply, shaking his head, a wry grin creeping up his cheek.

Without further ado, or explanation, Deborah lurched gracefully through the open door, dragging Douglas into the chilled air outside.

***

As it turned out, Deborah had no more idea what the machine was than Douglas did, and was even less inclined to touch it, for fear of vanishing into thin air. The smell of burnt metal had receded slightly in their absence, but seeing the scarred interior of his flight-deck did strange things to Douglas’s stomach. It was like seeing one’s house burnt and burgled.

The feeling hadn’t been alleviated by Deborah’s flippant exclamation that given the nature of the crash, and the damage caused to the airfield, their GERTI should have endured far more damage. In truth, the crew should never have survived, what with no conscious pilots and a free-fall in a cross-dimensional storm of some sort.

And Douglas had been at a loss for words. He was torn between muted horror at the setting, about the whole tangled mess of knotted and matted trauma that he had stumbled into, and the almost knee-jerk need to know everything about the woman.

He could tell from the way that she clambered over the wreckage where she could, picking up shards of blackened metal and inspecting them over her nose, lobbing them over her shoulder when done, occasionally asking a surreptitious question that was obviously to judge his character, that she was in mind at least just like him.

So they agreed to do a check on the outer damage to the plane, to look for clues there as to why they were even in a situation where it was possible to talk. In truth, Douglas just wanted to stall having to return.

Deborah it seemed, was as eager as he was, although, like him, she kept her eagerness wrapped tight beneath an aloof and mischievous front, weaving jabs and jokes into her honesty. Douglas, as he could do nothing else, did the same when he could.

As he followed Deborah around GERTI’s crumpled nose, his arms folded for warmth as he tried not to trip over the sturdy mounds of earth and steel, Douglas discovered that she lived at the same address that he did, drove the same purple Lexus that he did (down to the number plate), had been raised in the same house in the same county, and had studied medicine briefly (even briefer than he had –he had definitely lasted more than two months before deciding that he didn’t like it) before working her way through flight school, Air England, and then MJN.

He gathered that she was slightly younger than he was, but she wouldn’t say by how much; she just tapped her nose with a coy grin and wandered towards the starboard wing, which was touching the soiled grass beneath it.

It was the personal details that Douglas had been putting off. Now, as he inspected a cringe-worthy dent in the wing, running his hand over the once smooth veneer, he snuck a glance towards Deborah, who was doing something similar a few feet along, caressing the damage with a tenderness uncalled for in any other circumstance.

It might have helped if _she_ had been asking some more questions, but she seemed content to allow Douglas to ask, and listen when he met her answer with one of his own.

“So Deborah,” Douglas decided to take the leap, starting nonchalant, though he knew that she wouldn’t buy it for a second; the woman’s head tilted in his direction, and she had to brush her hair from her face, but she nodded with an open expression, “have you been married at all?”

“Have you?” she shot back. And there it was, Douglas thought, the first moment of confrontation, as fragile as it was; this was as sore a spot for her as it was for him then.

“I’ve been married three times, and I’m now single once more.” Douglas explained; he found that it was somewhat useful to have a broken plane to deflect his attention onto. From the corner of his eyes he watched Deborah nod slowly, and then shrug, as if all of the effort of holding her shoulders up evaporated, leaving her drained.

“Just the two times.” She responded, and Douglas looked up to meet her gaze at the cold shade in her voice; he was unable, as Deborah kept her eyes trained to the ground, turning away from GERTI to lean against the metal and twist her thumbs together, “I didn’t marry the second one.”

“So that’s three long-term partners then?” Douglas pushed, surprised; he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this was intriguing in a macabre kind of way.

Deborah finally looked up, her eyes dark and her lips pouting as she met his.

“Yes.” She said wanly.

Douglas nodded, looking away awkwardly before turning back with a dry smile.

“What happened to them?” he inquired, “It could be interesting to compare notes, see if there are any trends that we might avoid in future.”

Deborah managed a sharp exhalation that could have been a laugh, and shrugged, the creases in her face easing as she sighed. If Douglas had to describe her, he’d have said she looked as tired as he usually felt.

“The first one only lasted about eighteen months. We got married when I started flight school, and a year and a half later he decided that he didn’t need a wife who was only going to be in the same country as him two days a week.” Deborah narrated, glumness creeping into her tone despite the flippant way she shrugged every now and again, making it seem more forced, “It was silly to marry him anyway, we’d only known each other a few months when I was studying medicine.”

“Then why did you?” Douglas asked; it was a dilemma. He had always been the one proposing, and was therefore always one hundred per cent sure that marriage was the best option until it fell apart. As a woman, and not even that, just the way she described it, it sounded as if Deborah hadn’t had that luxury.

“Because I was young and it seemed like a good idea.” Deborah replied, “I barely remember him if I’m honest…can’t say we were great friends, just, well…good at the other relationship requirements.”

Douglas nodded to say that he had understood. It was only fair that he share, if only so that she could compare as well.

“I met my first _wife_ when I was studying medicine, and that only lasted two years – again…couldn’t deal with the pilot’s hours and never seeing me.” He informed her, and Deborah smiled as best she could in return, “I met my _second_ about eight years later in a bar, I asked her to marry me a year after that, and we divorced due to my…well, due to my alcoholism, when my daughter was only a few months old.”

“You have a daughter?” Deborah was suddenly alert again, treading closer, arms wrapping around her chest; she didn’t look shocked or worried, so Douglas tried not to feel that way either.

“Yes, Verity’s twelve this year.”

Deborah nodded and sighed, gazing over his shoulder before fixing her stare back on Douglas, smiling with genuine warmth, her brown eyes lighting up.

“I called _my_ daughter Verity,” she said, and Douglas felt an odd surge of comfort, “Except she’s eight this year.”

“From your second one, who did _not_ ask you to marry him?” he inquired; there was no longer any worry about overstepping any lines. Douglas felt confident that he would receive any answers that he requested.

“Yes…I also had a while before I met him, in a bar, and… _well_ …it was nice having someone that wasn’t another pilot to talk to…you know how chauvinistic Air England can be at times,” Deborah reflected, and Douglas hummed under his breath; he just wanted to swallow the sinking feeling that _he_ had been one of the chauvinistic pilots at Air England, if not because he felt inclined, but because everyone else was doing it, “and he was a good drinking buddy, but he…uh…he never wanted to marry me because – he didn’t like how much I drank, and then I got pregnant, and as soon as she was born he had me tied up in a custody battle.” She sighed and closed her eyes momentarily, the sadness leaking into her very being, “I didn’t fight it…the legal action was enough for me to realise that I couldn’t raise her while addicted to alcohol, so now she lives in Barrow-in-Furness and I see her every now and again.”

Douglas didn’t know how to respond to that. When his daughter had been born, it had been painful, it had been a kick in the right direction when he had been told they were going away, and he just about coped seeing Verity infrequently…but he just couldn’t quite picture having a child inside him for nine months, and then having to _let it go._ He had always accepted that Verity was probably better off with her mother…but in this world, Deborah was he mother, and she was on her own. So he moved the conversation on.

“I met my third wife at my second wedding.” Douglas said, and was pleased to see Deborah perk up in interest, “She was the barmaid…but she had an affair a few years ago, and we separated.”

“What was she like?” Deborah asked, and something in her tone made Douglas pause. Her face was a picture of innocent curiosity, but there was something else.

“You’re digging aren’t you?” he remarked, and Douglas took her moment of sheepish contemplation to lean back against GERTI’s hull, “There’s a specific reason you want to know.”

Deborah shrugged, but didn’t provide an answer, so Douglas had no choice but to continue.

“Helena fit all the usual specs, you know…she was beautiful, funny, and clever, and she loved me.” He described dryly; if he was honest with himself, though she had been his favourite at the time, he had come to realise that what he loved most about Helena was nothing about _her_ (as they spent so little time together with him flying about the globe), but more the _idea_ of her as a wife, “I suppose she just got bored of me.”

“I see…” Deborah sighed, nodding as if this answered all of her questions; upon clocking Douglas’s bewildered look, she smiled awkwardly, “My Harry had an affair as well …he was a barman, isn’t that odd?” she trailed off, and then seemed to regain some steam, “I’ve been thinking lately that actually I never really loved him, not properly – I think I just agreed to marry him because I like being married…I mean, there wasn’t even an argument, we just talked and then separated.”

“Perfectly peaceful, I know what you mean.” Douglas agreed, “So when did you start thinking that?”

“Before I even knew about the affair.” Deborah replied, and Douglas had to reign his reaction into a mere raised eyebrow, “I think I was talking to Martin…he asked me why I loved Harry, and I gave the same answer you just did. Then he asked if I was happy – I suppose he just caught on quicker than I did…” she looked thoughtful, and Douglas had only seconds to realise that he had had a very similar conversation with his own Martin years beforehand,  before she ploughed on, seemingly encouraged by the ability to be completely honest, “and I said something about never being truly happy, which is just sad I suppose, and then…and then Arthur was there, and Carolyn, and Martin…Martin is an adorable drunk, but…it just occurred to me that at no point in my marriage was I as happy as I was when watching Martin shout book titles at me. Which says a lot about who I’m willing to marry if they ask nicely.”

Douglas was once again (and it was disconcerting how often this was happening) speechless. He wasn’t shocked, or even mortified, but he wasn’t sure how to respond when this woman’s problems were so similar to his own, and yet so drastically different. So he dodged whatever he should have been saying and pushed the conversation forward.

“What reason did he give for cheating on you?” Douglas asked, smirking at the twisted yet pleasant smile that curled Deborah’s lips at the question, “Helena said that she got bored and lonely because I was always away – which is fair enough I suppose, even if I wasn’t pleased with her at the time.”

“Oh, Harry also said that he was bored.” Deborah remonstrated, and her arms retracted from around her chest to gesture accordingly, “He said that I was away too long, and that, and this is a quote ‘ _it would be nice if you talked about something other than your bloody Captain for once.’_ ” She shrugged flippantly, swaggering away from GERTI’s exterior, “Honestly, I spend all day locked up with the man, what else am I going to complain about when I get home?”

Douglas found that he had no idea, and said so, earning a warm chuckle, which he ended up mirroring, if not a little bitterly. Life wasn’t better. Not for him, and definitely not for her.

“Do you think we’ve left them long enough?” Douglas hinted, nodding towards the Porta-cabin. Lord only knew what the two Martin’s had got up to in their absence.

“I suppose so,” Deborah sighed drearily, and she began walking away from GERTI, making it necessary for Douglas to up his pace to fall into step beside her as she turned her head to note, “You know who we haven’t seen yet?”

“Any Arthurs.” Douglas finished; he hoped that they had returned and stayed out of trouble, but there was only so much that hope could achieve. Making himself forget his trepidation, Douglas followed Deborah as she put her entire weight into shoving the door to the Porta-cabin, eventually forcing it open with less grace than she may have hoped.


	7. Chapter Seven

Within the Porta-Cabin Douglas and Deborah were met with the sight of both Martins seated exactly where they had been when the two of them had left. Douglas rolled his eyes when Martin’s head tilted upwards to peer up at him from the sofa; he didn’t know why he had been expecting Martin to warm to his doppelganger, but he had almost dared to hope that the freckled Captain would have allowed himself to relax when it had only been himself to embarrass.

Martin however was still hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands clenched under his chin. The faint trace of a smile that formed when his eyes fell upon Douglas was enough to reassure him that Martin was no longer near to panic, but the First Officer couldn’t help the pang of fond despair at his ingrained ineptitude.

As Douglas lowered himself into the sofa beside Martin, just close enough that their legs brushed through the polyester of their trousers, he watched with a tempered bemusement as Deborah passed behind Other-Martin on the way to her own desk, a playful glint in her eyes.

Other-Martin looked more relaxed at first glance than Martin, though Douglas couldn’t be sure, as there was only so much that he could read from a few extra inches of slouch, and a discarded pilot’s jacket, which was now folded and resting on the edge of his desk.

One of Deborah’s hands swept across Other-Martin’s shoulders as she paused behind him, leaning down to mutter something that Douglas couldn’t decipher into his ear, and the man’s only response was for his cheeks to flush scarlet, a conflicted grin adorning his cheeks as he shook his head and ran a hand through his slightly too mussed hair.

“Are you alright?” Douglas turned his head slightly as Martin whispered into his ear; the Captain had shifted closer so that they could talk with a semblance of privacy. Across the room Deborah and Other-Martin were communicating almost wordlessly and as quietly as possible, leaning in together over their desks.

“Of course Captain, why wouldn’t I be?” Douglas muttered in response, dismissing Martin’s concern as best he could; it wouldn’t do to allow him to see how his talk with Deborah had rattled him. So nothing was better, and he wasn’t missing out, but there was something about hearing his life twisted and altered that unsettled Douglas’ tentative ego.

Martin swallowed cautiously, but did not hold back from meeting Douglas’ defensive glare watt for watt.

“No reason, you just look a bit spooked.” He replied, pacing his words but not wavering; Douglas was only partially able to hold back the huff that tried to escape, but Martin merely nodded in recognition and ploughed on, “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing.” Douglas answered hastily, ignoring the pointed look that Martin gave him as he shifted back to his original position; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Martin, or even that he didn’t feel that sometimes the Captain was the best (and only) person to share with, but today…today there were just certain things that he didn’t want to mar the steady air between them.

He wasn’t even sure what it was about his conversation with Deborah, but for some reason Douglas just didn’t want Martin to even have to contemplate whatever it was. The uncertainty only trebled at the realisation that across the room, Other-Martin was quite probably receiving a full narrative of events, if the solemn expression on Deborah’s face as she talked with her eyes tracing everything from the desktop to Other-Martin’s tie, her hands making minimal motions.

“I can assure you Martin, I am absolutely fine.” Douglas leant back into Martin’s space to make clear in a low tone; Martin’s lips pursed into a thin line, and his eyebrows pinched, but he didn’t argue, which Douglas was thankful for, as it allowed him to announce in a louder cadence, “So what have the two of you been up to in our absence? A bit of compare and contrast?”

Deborah quirked an eyebrow, nonplussed, but ceased her narrative to slip back into her chair, slouching until her heels could have rested atop the desk. Other-Martin’s expression was equally thrown, but he regained his formulated and forced façade of control swiftly.

“We’ve…uh, we’ve just been chatting really,” he explained, and there was something in his tone that made Douglas feel as if something was being omitted; it can’t have been important, as Martin went puce and made wild hand movements when he was lying about something big, but there was definitely some avoidance, which Douglas had to admit, he wasn’t fond of, “You know…”

“Stuff that might be different, or uh…the same.” Martin added unhelpfully from Douglas’ side, and a cursory examination revealed that there was definitely some careful omission taking place.

“Exactly, so we - we talked about our lives, and likes and dislikes, and um…” at this Other-Martin trailed off, his gaze wandering over to Deborah and hanging there with the remnants of his sentence; she didn’t seem to notice, but was making a ‘carry on’ gesture with her hand, her face set in a picture of practiced patience.

She didn’t seem to have come to the same conclusion that Douglas had; and a strange, almost frustrating conclusion in was, the cheek of it. It was so obvious _now -_ Martin and Other-Martin had spent the majority of their time alone discussing _Deborah._

“So you both had a _good old_ chin-wag.” Douglas announced, realising only after he had said it that he had made himself sound unnecessarily bitter.

Other-Martin finally looked away from Deborah, only to peer concernedly at Douglas, visibly rethinking his entire approach to the conversation as a whole.

“Well, yes…I’d say that sums it up.” He remarked slowly, glancing almost unthinkingly to Deborah for confirmation.

Douglas too turned his head to watch Deborah, whose eyes hopped from her colleague to the two strangers on the sofa, the only animation on her otherwise carefully schooled and unsure face. Her right hand moved to her desk seemingly on its own, and retrieved a pen, which was twiddled between her fingers. She inhaled steadily before remarking that,

“Isn’t it _nice_ that everyone’s getting along?”

Martin scoffed under his breath, dropping his head momentarily to scratch at his brow, an action that Douglas watched purely so that he wouldn’t have to endure the awkward tension that had re-emerged like a particularly bad itch.

Thankfully, the sound of two overly cheerful murmurs filtered through the thin walls, and with a thud and a creak that echoed an ice-pick being hacked through a small tree, the door to the Porta-Cabin swung open, allowing the two Arthurs to pour in, still chattering away.

All four heads turned in tandem to observe the influx of cheer, and Douglas had to battle down the fleeting headache that took hold as he found that he was unable to see which Arthur was his own, only receding when Other-Arthur stepped away from his double and swaggered over to flop into his wheelie chair opposite Deborah.

“Hey chaps, Other-Me showed me every bit of the air-field, even the bits that we never go to, and it’s all almost exactly the same!” Arthur announced, flinging out his arms as he spoke, and dropping down onto the arm of the sofa, jostling Douglas as he did so. His smile was as wide as ever, fuelled by excitement at the menial wonders of the new world, and Douglas thought that the lad hadn’t even picked up on the metaphorical gulf that waxed and waned between the others.

While Arthur had been speaking however, Other-Arthur had exchanged a brief, surreptitious glance with Deborah, who had nodded imperceptibly and adorned a reassuring smile. That had apparently been enough to dispel the fleeting moment of perception, as Other-Arthur’s face regained its pleasant glow and he span his chair fluidly around so that he could properly address all four pilots at once.

“Well, almost the same.” Other-Arthur corrected, receiving an understanding nod of agreement from Arthur, and a continued silence from the pilots, who Douglas assumed were all waiting as he was, “There’s those old hangars at the back that me and Deborah-”

“That’s enough Arthur.” Deborah interjected, making a cutting motion with her hand, her eyes widened pointedly at the steward, whose eyebrows raised in collusion, his mouth snapping shut as he nodded and attempted unsuccessfully to wink.

Douglas’ curiosity was piqued against his will, and even Martin stiffened and leaned forward, looking questioningly at Arthur, who looked down at his hands in the way that he did when he was failing to hide something. Other-Martin snapped up in his seat, straightening out indignantly, focusing in on Deborah while addressing Other-Arthur.

“ _Arthur_ , what has Deborah done in the hangars at the back of the airfield?” he demanded, the accusation tinged with a hint of exasperation, as if he had expected nothing else.

Deborah didn’t waver in meeting his glare, but like her colleague, address Other-Arthur with a sideways nod, as if to tell him to go ahead.

Other-Arthur immediately looked guiltily away from the two, turning his eyes towards the floor when he met Douglas and Martin’s inquisitive stares. Douglas actually felt some pity for him; true, he didn’t use their own Arthur much in his own schemes, but when the man became accidently entangled he could either be a useful if not entertaining ally, or a massive liability. Neither lent itself to a clear Arthurian conscience.

Slowly but surely, Other-Arthur appeared to formulate an answer.

“Deborah told me that instead of trying to lie, because I’m bad at it, I should just say that I don’t want to answer.” He said, measuring his tone, and then adopting a small proud little small, “So, I don’t want answer that Skip.”

Other-Martin let out a sigh that edged part-way into an exasperated growl, and tipped his head back as he broke the staring contest that he had been holding with his First Officer, who for her part turned in her chair to smile indulgently at Other-Arthur.

“Hmm…our Skip wouldn’t be too pleased if _Douglas_ had done it.” Arthur added helpfully, or so Douglas assumed he thought so.

“What? Did what?” Martin inquired; Douglas had an inkling that Martin would have been at least ten times more furious if it had been his own universe, even if neither knew what had actually been done. That was probably for the best given the faux sheepish pout of Deborah’s face as she inspected her nails.

It didn’t really matter, not when compared to the thoughts that had crept into Douglas’ mind during the exchange. He wasn’t sure what had triggered them, but they were serious enough that he felt that he had to put them into words.

“Is there anywhere that the three of us can stay incognito for the remainder of the day?” he asked; Martin’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline, and Other-Martin just looked confused, but Deborah rolled her shoulders back and nodded seriously, allowing Douglas to elaborate, “It’s just I can’t see the day going by without someone walking in, and if _our_ ground crew are anything to go by, finding two crews might cause a bit of an event.”

“You can stay in the old fuselage round the back,” Deborah offered immediately, as Martin spluttered some kind of argument, and Other-Martin started up a litany of ‘ _Hold on’_ , “It’s still got some soft chairs and alcohol in there from when we had to move the bar.”

“Wait one moment!” Martin insisted, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender and a call for attention, “What about working out how to send us home?”

“Exactly! They can’t _stay_ here.” Other-Martin corroborated; Douglas huffed at the tempered irritation that the two Captains sent in each other’s directions.

“True, we _can’t_ stay here, but we also can’t start looking at the machine on GERTI until we’ve got clear heads and some sleep in us.” Douglas said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

Martin exhaled loudly and slumped back into the sofa, wrapping his arms violently around his chest as he did.

“ _I_ don’t mind staying.” Arthur offered tentatively, “Just for a while – I mean, it’s quite interesting really.”

“But say that we _do_ let you stay in this universe overnight, how would that even work?” Other-Martin asked wearily; he ran a thin, worn hand over his face, hiding the freckled cheeks for a few seconds before turning almost instinctively to Deborah.

Douglas would have offered a solution, if he had had one, but he was intrigued to see how the woman would handle the situation. To his pleasure, she did not disappoint, squaring her shoulders and extending her hands in a steadying motion, looking for all the world as if she had everything figured out.

“It’s simple,” she started, her smirk was gone, but it had been replaced by a self-confident assuredness, “The three of you stay out of sight until after dark, and Martin and I remain here and go about our jobs as if it were a normal day,” she paused to lean under her desk, and reappeared with a set of keys, taking a moment to sweep her dark hair over her shoulder from where it had flopped out of place, “After dark you can go to my flat – Douglas said it was the same as his, so you won’t have a problem – you can use my car, but you’ll have to execute this _without_ us, as it might look suspicious if we get caught all together,” Other-Martin still looked unconvinced, but Douglas nodded and had to jolt forward on the sofa to catch the set of keys that were thrown at him from across the room, “I can get a taxi back, but I’ll make sure it’s after you’ve left.”

“That all seems fine.” Douglas replied appraisingly, smiling in return for the pleased grin that swept onto Deborah’s cheeks.

“But what if it goes wrong?” Martin groaned; Douglas took a moment to observe his Captain, and wasn’t sure whether to be bored or fond of the fact that Martin had apparently decided that the best course of action was in fact to press the heels of his hands into his own eyes and block out the world, “Our plane’s just lying on the grass for Christ’s sake!”

“No one’s called about that yet.” Other-Martin interjected as Deborah began to reply; his face scrunched in confusion and he darted closer to his desk to check the phone as if the lack of ringing might have been a lie, “That’s a bit weird…why has no one noticed it.”

“Let’s just be glad that they haven’t.” Douglas drawled, rolling his shoulders back and readying himself to rise to his feet. He was certain that regardless of either Martin’s protests, they would be carrying out Deborah’s master plan soon.

“Well, now that we’ve sorted that out, the three of you better be on your way.” Deborah announced, rising to her feet and extending an arm towards the door, “and I will see at my flat this evening.”

Martin groaned once more, but it lacked any vigour; he practically launched lethargically to his feet, turning to offer Douglas a hand up, which was promptly rejected in favour of Douglas hoisting himself up, ignoring the way that his knees clicked with the effort.

“I look forward to it.” Douglas replied as charmingly as he could; Deborah mirrored his smile, but Other-Martin didn’t respond, even as Other-Arthur gave a little wave and wished them a good day, “Come on Arthur, Martin.”

Douglas hurried the two of them through the door, Arthur bounding along eagerly in the lead, taking the midday breeze in his stride as Martin muttered ‘ _fine, fine, I’m going’._

Despite the slightly easier flow of events, Douglas couldn’t help but feel that as the door to the Porta-Cabin clicked shut behind them, and they hastened as quickly as they could across the air-field, that it became a fraction easier to breathe.

***

The oath of silence that Martin had apparently taken didn’t last long once they had entered the abandoned fuselage. He immediately launched into a half-muttered tirade (which made it easier for Douglas to ignore) about everything from the minute aesthetic alterations to this universe, to the fact that he had a van job back home, and how their plan to camp at Deborah’s flat was reckless.

True to Deborah’s word, there were still a few cushioned seats scattered about the interior of the fuselage, and the lights worked, and there was a musty odour hanging in the air, lingering around the bottles of unopened alcohol that had been left in the empty bar space.

Martin continued to rant after he dropped onto a seat and slung one leg over the other, and Douglas didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop after the day that they had had, so merely nodded and hummed at the correct cues and rooted through the bar space, Arthur at his heels.

“Are you alright Douglas?” Arthur asked quietly, careful not to interrupt Martin’s litany; Arthur may have been a clot, but he seemed able to understand that the Captain needed his outlet.

Douglas glanced over his shoulder as he crouched down to search through the lower cubbies; he took in Arthur’s concerned demeanour, and had to force himself not to be too unsettled by the fact that _Arthur_ was picking up on whatever foreign emotion that Douglas himself couldn’t decipher.

“Of course I am Arthur,” Douglas reassured him, shrugging off the unwelcome feelings, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no reason.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders and knelt down beside Douglas, more, he suspected, because he wanted to be level than because he wanted to help, “It’s just…you don’t look alright…but I suppose you don’t want to talk about it.”

Douglas wasn’t sure how to respond, but pulled out of the cubby nonetheless, meeting Arthur’s gaze and nearly choking out his yet unidentified worries at the open honesty on his face. It was at times like this that Douglas remembered why he hadn’t dismissed Arthur within the first week of their acquaintance.

So he settled for a smile, and slid upright once more. Arthur rose with him, but for once didn’t speak, for which Douglas was grateful. It was only then that Douglas realised that Martin had fallen silent.

He looked over at the Captain, and found himself momentarily overwhelmed with the sadness and sympathy that the image brought forth in him. Martin was still sitting where they had left him, but his head was hung low so that only half of his dreary expression was visible under the freckles and red hair as he picked at the skin at the edge of one thumb. In that moment, Douglas would have given anything to be back in his own Porta-Cabin, with a strained but cheerful Martin.

“Do you think Mum’s worried about us?” Arthur’s cautious question jolted Douglas from his dark musings; he turned his head, and the sadness on Arthur’s face made him wish that he hadn’t.

“I’m sure she’s missing you very much Arthur.” Douglas said the only words of comfort that he could think of, “And when we get home she’ll be thrilled to see you.”

“Yeah…” Arthur agreed, sighing in such an un-Arthurish way that Douglas decided that he couldn’t stand it, and instead strode across the fuselage to sit down beside Martin. Martin jumped, startled, but he attempted a struggling smile that faded quickly.

There was something about Martin, when he pouted a certain way, looking drained and genuinely miserable, that Douglas had never been able to face without giving in and comforting him; even when it was Douglas himself causing that face he found that he had to try and turn it around. He could honestly say that he had no idea how to fix Martin this time, other than taking them home, and that was far outside of his skill set.

So instead he shifted closer to his Captain, and felt a surge of victory as Martin leaned into him ever so slightly, so that their arms were pressed together and the warmth between them became an anchor to reality. Arthur lowered himself to the floor opposite them, as Martin leant forward into his defensive pose, elbows on knees and hands under chin.

“So Martin…what did you learn from your charming doppelganger?” Douglas inquired after the otherwise comfortable quiet had stretched on for too long.

Beside him, he could feel Martin shudder in brief laughter, and if he peered down over his chin, Douglas could watch Martin’s face as he tilted his head up to engage on polite conversation.

“He’s uh…he’s mostly the same as me, almost exactly actually.” Martin explained, a tentative smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as he quirked an eyebrow and took on as sardonic an air as he could, “Our lives are exactly the same right up until we join MJN – and even after that, the clients have all been pretty much the same…it’s just little things that have changed. You know, the trouble at St Petersburg was only a month and a half ago for them?”

“Really?” Arthur remarked brightly, his eyes widening the only sign that he had done some quick thinking, “So they’re back in time as well?”

“Maybe Arthur, but that’s the least of our worries.” Douglas answered, raising a hand to make a shushing motion; he was intrigued despite his own trepidation, “What kind of things went differently?”

“It seems to just be stuff that Deborah was involved directly in.” Martin informed them; Douglas immediately regretted his own curiosity, this was exactly the kind of thing that had been making him uncomfortable, “You were there when they mentioned the blazing row after Qikiqtarjuaq, but I asked again and whereas you just brushed it off and left, Deborah apparently got really defensive about being told off, and something about abusing her friendship with the American woman,” Martin let out a truncated laugh, and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand, “he…um…he mentioned the SEP course at Ipswich, and that was the almost the same, except there seemed to be bickering than I remember, and he said that Deborah was _really_ worried when he passed out, that she kept fussing over him, trying to get him to drink water in case he collapsed again.”

“Aw…that’s sweet of her.” Arthur noted, and Martin shrugged, brushing it off. Douglas could only hum under his breath, nudging Martin to encourage him to continue.

“Um…he said that she bought him a new pair of aviators when he broke his at that Spanish airport – I still haven’t replaced _mine_.” Martin recalled, shifting so that he was sat back again, one hand still under his chin as the other wrapped around his own waist; the churning feeling in Douglas’ gut didn’t recede, “Oh, there was the time that she was running the illegal bars, like you were, but she apparently felt bad for leaving him on his own for the ground crews, so instead of starting a pilot’s lounge, she convinced him that they could sit and have coffee in the Porta-Cabin, and that they could talk about things other than planes, like normal friends do.”

“That’s an awfully lovely thing for someone with my personality to do; anyone would think that she was overly fond of Other-Martin.” Douglas drawled, instantly regretting it when he saw the momentary flicker of upset cross Martin’s face, “Then again, women _do_ tend to be more sympathetic to that kind of thing, _you know_ , overly caring.”

“Yeah…I suppose.” Martin conceded, frowning before rearranging his features, “Then there was the ruckus over the bears, but it sounds like they made up again after that. He mentioned that she was a bit quiet when Herc and his First Officer were around that first time, and she only really asked about whether he was going to ask her out – he reckons it was having Herc around.” Martin paused for breath, and Douglas wished that he hadn’t, as it provided the perfect opportunity for his traitorous mind to suggest that it wasn’t _Herc_ that his double had had a problem with: Martin continued, “They did the Ottery St Mary trip – she messed up just like you did, but took it far more graciously, granted with more swearing, but still, he said that she helped him back to his attic and even cooked dinner to apologise.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I owe you a home cooked dinner.” Douglas warned with a smirk, feeling proud of himself when Martin let out a genuine, if not stilted, chuckle.

“No, no I’m not.” Martin laughed, smiling warmly across at his colleague.

“But it _was_ all your fault that we stole GERTI.” Arthur interjected, smiling cheekily, “So surely you owe us for sharing the blame.”

“Believe me Arthur, I have repaid that debt a thousand times over just by keeping MJN from failing at every mistake we make.” Douglas retorted; he relaxed as well as he could on the dusty chairs, and rubbed his hands over his knees just for something to do.

Martin’s hand slipped across the gap between them to nudge Douglas’s with the back of his knuckles before he retracted it, and took this as his cue to continue describing his findings.

“The Other-Me took great pains describing how when she was forced to do the video for Mr Alyakin, Deborah went bright red when watching it and tried to hide her face in his arm…that sort of thing.” Martin trailed off, and then seemed to shake himself, “He talked about her _a lot_ actually – even when describing St Petersburg, I gathered that they didn’t really separate until late at night, and that’s only because Deborah didn’t want to be in a restaurant on her own at two in the morning.”

“Well, we all stayed together until we got back – it was a troublesome day.” Douglas drawled, almost to himself; he didn’t want to acknowledge whatever it was that was pressing at the back of his mind, “That doesn’t say much.”

“Say much about what?” Martin replied quickly, and Douglas inhaled sharply, only then realising what he had been saying. Luckily, the crinkled expression of bewilderment on Martin’s face was reassuring, and Douglas shrugged off his question.

“Never mind Captain.”

***

They had passed the day with mindless chatter and supposition. Well, Martin and Arthur had; Douglas had allowed himself to drift in and out of the conversation as it became dull or mundane. He wanted to think, but when he did, he wanted nothing more than for the inane babble to wash over him once more. He needed to learn more, or do _something…_ he had an idea, and it wouldn’t be difficult to pull off. He probably wouldn’t even need to lie about it.

Eventually, the sky outside grew dark, and Martin pushed up his sleeve to check his watch, announcing that the ground crews would have left, so it was safe to take Deborah’s car and head to the sanctity of her flat.

As they filtered out of the fuselage, Martin behaving as if he were in some tacky spy film, Douglas wrapped a hand around his arm, pulling him to the side, and nodding for Arthur to go on ahead.

“Douglas? What are you doing?” Martin asked in the clipped, curious-accusatory tone that he seemed unable to shake no matter how long they had known each other.

When Douglas met his blue eyes, filled with the same concern as before, but no real accusation or suspicion, he decided that honesty was the best policy.

“I want you and Arthur to go on ahead – I’ll get a taxi back to the flat.” Douglas explained briefly, sighing at the frown that he had known would appear on the freckled cheeks.

“Why?” Martin’s voice only now took on the suspicious, but unusually hesitant timbre; even in the dark of the unlit airfield, Douglas could read the pinched expression on his face, and didn’t remove his hand from around his colleague’s arm.

“Because the Porta-Cabin will be empty at this time of night, and I want to search through their client lists.” Douglas answered, and before Martin could get out more than a groan, he jumped straight back in, “For my own peace of mind Martin, that’s all.”

Martin held his gaze, the calculation actually visible in his eyes. After an incalculable amount of time, his features softened and he sighed, raising his free hand to run raggedly through his hair.

“Fine … okay, just…be back soon.” Martin looked as if he wanted to say more, but shook his head, and pulling his arm from Douglas’ grasp, turned almost unwillingly and strode away in Arthur’s wake.

Douglas watched his figure disappear into the darkness, and then headed in the opposite direction, towards the Porta-Cabin. As he had expected, the lights were off, and he relocked the door using his own set of keys, which as expected, fit the lock.

Ignoring the conjoined desks completely, Douglas strode through the dark room and into the office at the back that belonged to Other-Carolyn. The door had been left partially open, and Douglas felt a surge of affection for Carolyn for being so predictable regardless of which universe she belonged to.

The first thing he did was pull out the files that he knew would contain the details of all of this MJN’s clients, and all of their flights. Douglas retrieved his phone from his pocket, and used the light from its screen to illuminate the pages that he laid out on the desk.

As he ran his eyes over the dates and bookings, running his fingers over the printed words, the sinking sensation returned. Of course they were the same, right down to Mr Birling’s regular bookings.

Now that he was alone, it was as if the elusive doubts felt that they could wander freely. Some part of him, deep down, had hoped that it wasn’t just the lack of _him_ that had changed the universe in which he now stood. If he was honest with himself, Douglas had hoped that there were extraneous variables, like alternative clients, that had changed things.

But the clients were the same, and the only difference was the woman that was probably on her way home right then.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much – at first he had felt sick at the thought that the world could pootle on without a Douglas Richardson…and then he had hoped that it hadn’t changed a thing, and that this Deborah hadn’t achieved a better standard of living than he had. He didn’t want this universe to be different, but it _was_ , it was subtly different.

He wanted it to be the same, but he wanted to have made an impact. He wanted it to be different, but he couldn’t stand the idea that it was.

In a rush of activity, Douglas piled the files back as they should have been, pushing away the data. He dropped into Other-Carolyn’s seat and placed his head in his hands against the desk, breathing in deeply, relishing the muting of his senses.

Douglas wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but when he lifted his head again he decided firmly that he had to leave then, or risk worrying Martin, and having the man return to the air-field.

He forced himself to his feet, and was just crossing the office, ready to leave and pretend that his moment of emotional breakdown had never happened, when the door to the Porta-Cabin creaked and clicked open, making him freeze.


	8. Chapter Eight

The door to the main porta-cabin opened, the creak and scrape of it sounding loud enough across the otherwise quiet night, that it reached Douglas in the Other-Carolyn’s offshoot. He thought about alerting whoever it was to his presence, but then his natural curiosity, and the still unexplainable need to know _more_ , made him pause. That, and he couldn’t stand the idea of whoever it was seeing him in the state that he was sure he was in.

All he could hear were low murmurings coming from the main office, so he couldn’t tell who had entered. Logically, he thought, had it been his own Fitton, the only people to wander about the Porta-Cabin at this time of the evening would have been Martin and himself, shuffling around for their belongings and exchanging either cheerful or disgruntled goodbyes before departing.

So logically, it was probably Other-Martin and Deborah; except this Fitton was not Douglas’ Fitton (he kept having to remind himself, even now), and he and Martin had never really stayed around to chat after their shifts were over.

It was that which made Douglas abandon whatever rational thoughts he might have been entertaining about popping through to say hello and excuse himself from the area. Instead, he crept as soundlessly as he could across the thin carpet, and pressed his back against the wall beside the door.

Luckily he had left it partially open (his Carolyn never closed hers when she was out, so this one can’t have either), and the mirror that hung on the outer side provided a decent view of the main office. Douglas wondered detachedly when he had moved from petty smuggling to actual eavesdropping, but realised that any dividing line he had set himself had dissolved years ago. No one would blame him though; accidently been shoved into a parallel universe- that seemed like mitigating circumstances to him.

Now he just settled himself as comfortably as he could, hoping that his back wouldn’t crack, as the murmuring grew to form actual words.

He hadn’t been wrong. To his dismay it _was_ Other-Martin and Deborah that had entered. He should have left then, but the churning feeling in his guts made him stay put. So much was subtly different, and that was to be expected, but there was something about the two of them that set his teeth on edge, made him want to stumble backwards quickly and just go back to the oblivious life of mocking Martin and getting a talking-to in return.

It wasn’t just the universe’s cruel machinations, or the client list…it was _those_ two, something that Douglas hadn’t voiced to Martin, and never would. Douglas should have been reassured by the fact that Martin hadn’t noticed anything odd about them, he knew that he should have, but he couldn’t help feel a little voyeuristic all the same.

Which was strange, because the scene playing out before him presented nothing but two colleagues catching up after a day hard at work; if he and Martin had been bosom buddies, that might have occurred back home, but Douglas could say with the utmost certainty that after spending all day in close proximity to the other man, all he wanted to do was go home and be anti-social (or Anti-Martin) for the night at least. It wasn’t that he disliked him, quite the opposite, but he was equally sure that the feeling was mutual.

These two however did not seem to have the same problem. Other-Martin was slouched in his own chair, his weight supported by the elbows that rested on his (still peculiarly disorganised desk – then again, compared to _his_ Martin, anything less than immaculate would constitute disorganised). They hadn’t switched on the main lights, but had instead resorted to the warm lamps that were dotted about the Porta-cabin.

Douglas knew that he had internally criticised Deborah for her ‘furnishing’ earlier, but it occurred to him that _actually_ , it was much nicer without the harsh bulbs of above glaring down on them.

Instead of filling out forms (as _his_ Martin was always doing when behind his desk), this Martin had shirked his jacket (which was slung across the back of his chair), and was nodding animatedly in response to what was being said, his body positioned so that he was directly engaging with his colleague.

Deborah, for her part (and Douglas couldn’t fathom why), was not seated in her own half of the odd obtuse triangle of desks, but rather was lounging in the wheelie chair that Arthur had left on the opposite side of Martin’s desk. It was pulled in so that, had she wanted to lean her arms on the desk, she could have, and found herself within inches of Other-Martin.

Douglas still couldn’t quite make out the words they were saying, but their voices were soft, low…like two friends having a proper conversation. The sharp edges on Other-Martin’s prissy tone were dulled to an almost pleasant, and definitely contented purr, and Deborah’s loud and drawn out sarcasm was vacant, save for a faster, yet somehow lighter tone (Douglas grudgingly admitted to himself that his own voice did something similar when he was _really_ interested in a subject, or a joke).

Douglas made an effort to slow his breathing, which was surprisingly difficult at his age. After a moment, his exhalations had quietened to a point where he could just make out what was being said, and he followed the conversation in the mirror.

“- always have an _idea_!” Other-Martin was insisting, and even if Douglas’s eyes were deceiving him, that was definitely a smile in the Captain’s voice ( _his_ Martin would have sounded more desperate, not so…teasing), “Just think about how much we want them to go home, and then…you’ll think of something.”

Deborah shook her head (and there as well! There was that _smile)_ , and an almost imperceptible tut was carried to the rear office.

“Martin, I know I’m the most _incredible_ person you’ve ever had the _honour_ to meet, but are you _really_ suggesting that I might discover the secret to…universal travel…by _thinking_ really hard about it?” she sighed, bringing up her arms to hang loosely about her chest and swinging her feet up onto Other-Martin’s desk.

Unsurprisingly, Other-Martin pushed them off, (gently though…he was always so gentle around her; then again, it wasn’t politically correct to be shoving women around the way that _his_ Martin shoved Douglas’s limbs away when he was being deliberately obstructive), his hand sweeping along her ankle in what Douglas hoped was just the mirror image’s distortion.

“No, no of course not – I mean, you’re not magic - ” Other-Martin replied hastily, letting out the awkward truncated chuckle-snort that Douglas usually only got to hear when the Captain was trying to impress passengers with his terrible jokes, “but… it’s one of those things…isn’t it? You think happy thoughts - ”

“ _Any_ happy little thought?” Deborah inquired, her dulcet tones slipping flawlessly into a mock American trill, as she shifted her seat even closer and dropped her elbows onto Other-Martin’s desk, her head into her hands.

To Douglas’s relief, Other-Martin shifted back to compensate, but not nearly enough.

“Deborah…” Other-Martin’s head shook in exasperation and Douglas could imagine him rolling his eyes as Deborah ploughed on. He had to give her credit, for all the major differences, she had the same keen mind, and had _he_ been in her place, he would have leapt upon that reference as well. Although, with far more respect for personal space. And pride.

“Should I think of Christmas?” Deborah fluttered, the smile that lit up her cheeks shining even from the mirror image, “Should I think of snow?”

“ _Yes_ , I got it.” Other-Martin sighed, and his hand actually slipped forward to push playfully at Deborah’s arm before returning to its place beside the other, “Peter Pan.”

Deborah looked down at the desk, humming the last few bars of the song under her breath before her head snapped up again, making her hair fall lopsidedly about her face. She swept it out of the way as she opened her mouth to speak again, this time her expression was serious, her mouth a small pout and her forehead crinkled.

“Why are you so eager to get rid of them?” she asked tentatively, and the companionable movement between the two seemed to stiffen, as Other-Martin dipped his head to run a hand through his hair, “I mean, I know it’s strange, but you’re a bit…antsy.”

Douglas was encouraged by the surge of indignation (better that than the trepidation that the previous line of discussion brought); how _dare_ they? Yes, _his_ crew had discussed their…feelings about this _other_ MJN in the time that they’d been cooped up in the fuselage, but hearing from this side…it was as if _they_ were the originals and _his_ crew were just the obscure copies, not quite right but too similar to disregard.

Then again, he choked back a guilty creeper that crawled up his throat…they would never know which set was _supposed_ to be. Which was one the _right_ one.

“I thought that I was ‘persistently prissy and pedantic’?” Other-Martin retorted, straightening his back and pointing his nose into the air; Douglas couldn’t quite believe that Other-Martin was joining in the mocking of _himself._

He also couldn’t quite believe the low but brief giggle that came out of Deborah. Her face was momentarily hidden by her hair as she burrowed further into her hands, but re-emerged with the glittering smile still fixed. He couldn’t quite make out facial expressions, but Other-Martin’s face was contorted into something akin to fondness (and he was _certain_ that _his_ Martin never had, and never would look at _him_ like that).

“But I didn’t say antsy, now did I?” Deborah corrected, waggling a finger at her Captain.

Other-Martin shook his head in acceptance, pursing his lips before he clasped his hands together and leant his chin against his knuckles.

“Why do _you_ seem so eager to keep them around?” he asked, and his voice dropped so that Douglas had to strain to hear the last few words; the smile of Deborah’s face evaporated as Other-Martin pushed on, not quite stuttering, but rushing his words together, “I know you talk to me and Arthur a lot – which is good- but you tend to keep quiet about a lot of things – and this Douglas bloke-” Douglas bit his bottom lip to stop himself scoffing ( _his_ Martin would never dare to refer to him in such a dismissive way…but then again, _this_ Martin didn’t seem to dare treat Deborah in that way, so it evened out in theory), “- I’ve never seen you so eager to talk to anyone, and you were _talking_ a lot – about everything!”

Douglas held his breath for the reply. He had an inkling of what the answer would be – their minds seemed to work almost exactly the same way…and he could easily explain away his own desire to talk to _her_ …but with her, there was that underlying… _thing_ , that he couldn’t put his finger on.

“I just…” Deborah trailed off, and her head drooped as she looked anywhere but Other-Martin; a few seconds passed before she reconnected, meeting his gaze and tensing her jaw, “Martin, this does not leave the room, you understand!” she instructed in hushed tones.

And then Other-Martin’s hand swept across his desk and encompassed hers; Douglas had to physically stop himself from bursting into the room and shouting ‘NO!’. Instead, he could only watch in the mirror as it dawned on him just what the _thing_ was. Martin, _his_ Martin, had been entirely incorrect.

What made it worse was that Deborah _did not react_. Other-Martin was already shaking his head and assuring her that he didn’t pass on anything else she had said (although Douglas thought she should also have made him promise not to use it as ammunition in their private wars), and his thumb seemed to be stroking lightly over her knuckles. And she was _stroking back_! No words, or anything, just _stroking._ Douglas wanted to say that it was subconscious, but that was actually _worse_.

He didn’t allow himself to think too hard about it, as Deborah’s shoulders had sagged as if her resolve had been broken.

“It’s just…having risen through a male dominated profession, and being treated in a way that _never_ lets me forget that…I just sometimes wonder if…if my life would have gone better if I had been the same as the other pilots.” Deborah’s voice was soft and light, and nowhere near as strong as it should have been given her bolshy personality; it sounded like someone who had been beaten down, and once again Douglas was painfully reminded of the way that his own voice had sounded when he had admitted to Arthur every failure that he could think of, putting into words his own let downs in a Irish airport bar.

In the mirror, it looked like Other-Martin had shifted back in her seat while Douglas had been ruminating, but his hand was still wrapped around Deborah’s.

“You don’t still think like that here? I mean – with me and Arthur…we don’t treat you-”

“You and Arthur treat me beautifully.” Deborah assured him, with a warm, tentative smile, and she momentarily raised their joined hands to her cheek before letting them drop back to the desk, “Of course, you’re rude to me, you make me carry heavy things, you shout at me when I try to do what _I_ think is the correct flight decision, you occasionally insult me, you’ve started _all_ of the arguments we’ve had -”

Other-Martin hummed under his breath, effectively cutting her off, and then, biting his bottom lip, shuffled their intertwined hands.

“So what’s the verdict then?” he asked, and it sounded as if he were holding back a retort that he would like to make, “Is your life suffering because you’re not _him_?”

“Well it turns out our lives are almost exactly the same chronologically – give or take a few years.” Deborah noted cheerfully, and then her plastered on smile dropped a little, “and we’re not the same person. The same template maybe…but the amalgam of events in our lives have made us different.” She looked thoughtful, and in the time before she spoke again, Douglas was able to take her point and see that _yes_ , this weird _thing_ that he was witnessing had no bearing on his own life, “Also I’m a woman; we’ve got different parts.”

Other-Martin scoffed and had to use his spare hand to cover up his cough; although, Douglas suspected that the Captain was attempting (futilely) to conceal the blood that had rushed to his cheeks.

“Charming, Deborah.” Other-Martin remarked, running the spare hand around the back of his neck.

“ _Anything_ for you, Darling.” Deborah drawled, leaning in as she spoke and settling back once she had finished, a wicked smirk adorning her lips. Now _that_ was the kind of attitude that Douglas would have expected from someone who claimed to be an alternate him; granted, with less flirting with Martin Crieff, but the point still stood.

“I don’t think they’re the same, _or_ better!” Other-Martin blurted, and Deborah’s raised eyebrow and slow nod summed up what Douglas wished he could say to this Martin. Deborah gave her free hand a less than delicate twirl to encourage him to continue, and Other-Martin hesitated for only a fraction of a second before what he had obviously been holding in spewed out.

“Of course they’re _the same_ – but they’re just… _off_. They don’t seem as good friends as all of us are, and there’s none of the, the _closeness_ there.” Other-Martin seemed to deflate, but not run out of breath; Deborah’s expression had gone blank, as if she were processing, or loading, “I know that this Douglas is almost the same, but it makes me kind of sad to think that he and the _other_ me don’t have the kind of…” at this Other-Martin ground to a halt, as if he had suddenly realised what he were saying; Douglas found himself itching to know what came next, despite his misgivings, but Deborah didn’t push (not even a sarcastic ‘ _ye-es’_ ); luckily, Other-Martin managed to scrabble together a half-decent ending, “well…what we have.”

Other-Martin motioned between the two of them, and it occurred to Douglas that maybe they really had forgotten where their hands were.

“Which _is_?” Deborah inquired, her expression as closed off as before, but her eyes were wide and bewildered.

Other-Martin spluttered a bit, made some mumbling excuses, but Deborah waited patiently for him to spit out whatever it was he was trying to say. Honestly, Douglas reflected, if all women allowed Martin time to load before shouting at him, the man would have had a girlfriend that lasted longer than a few months. The moment that the thought drifted through his mind, Douglas frantically tried to expel it.

“I, I , I just meant that – I wouldn’t think of you the same way if you were a man, same personality or not!” Other-Martin explained, and then flushed as he realised how that had sounded. Even Douglas cringed at the second-hand awkwardness.

“And how do you think of me?” Deborah repeated cautiously; Douglas had to admit, though the woman was more openly emotional than he would ever be, she was a thousand times better at keeping her expression and voice controlled. If anything, she sounded confused.

Other-Martin however, did not appear to appreciate this, as he was still spluttering.

“I _don’t_ think about you – I mean I _do_ , of course I do, I see you every day! I just mean I don’t think of you because you’re a woman, _NO_ , you being a woman doesn’t’ make me think of you differently than I would – _no that’s worse_.” His voice had risen and the sudden quiet when he clapped his mouth shut and glared pleadingly at Deborah, “You _know_ what I mean!”

Deborah nodded slowly, and then a smile crept over her lips, and just barley traced her cheeks.

“You mean that if I were a man, you’d send me to fetch things from the attic on my own…” she suggested, and though Douglas could see where this was going, Other-Martin’s eyebrows remained knitted in confusion until Deborah finished, “Whereas because I’m a _woman_ , you’d stand at the bottom of the ladder to make sure I didn’t fall on my -”

“Yes! Thank you.” Other-Martin interrupted, raising a hand to stop the mild expletive leaving her lips. The tension in his shoulders released and he regained eye contact, “That’s all I meant…the friendship-y closeness that they don’t have.”

“Oh, I think it’s _there_.” Deborah remarked, leaning back in, one elbow back on the desk while the other (to Douglas’s dismay) remained laid out to allow her hand to link with Other-Martin’s, “I think it’s just a _man_ thing – you can’t be _really good_ friends unless it’s all ‘professional’.”

“Well thank _God_ we’re not professional!” Other-Martin sniped, smiling fondly at his colleague; Douglas wished that he would stop looking at her like that. It did nothing to ease the churning in his gut.

“ _Captain Crieff!_ ” Deborah mock gasped, her smile splitting into a grin, “Did I just hear you criticise _professionalism_?”

Other-Martin shook his head, a taut smirk twitching on his flushed cheeks.

“No, I was merely noting that our relationship is in no way impeded by the code of conduct that we _should_ be following.” He replied in a clipped tone, but the smile never left his face.

Deborah giggled again; _giggled_! Douglas decided then that he didn’t like this Fitton, not at all.

“Of _course_ Captain! God himself could not sink our friendship!” she declared, positively beaming. And then there was a lull, as neither said a word, but they continued to _look_ at each other, sharing some sort of private joke.

And then any hope that Douglas had held about them forgetting the _hands_ was thrown out of the window and burned violently as Deborah lifted Other-Martin’s hand to her cheek, and then gave a momentary, fleeting peck to his knuckles, never taking her eyes off of his.

Douglas hated this Fitton.

The moment broke and their hands were disconnected; Douglas was able to look back at the mirror to see them glance awkwardly away from each other at different times, and then shift back as if nothing had happened. And it could well have been nothing; women were affectionate like that all the time.

Except, she thought the same way he did, and Douglas never did anything without seven ulterior motives.

They started talking again, but Douglas drowned them out and closed his eyes, pressing a hand over the lids. He _really_ hoped that there was nothing going on between them. _Or_ , if there was, that Other-Martin was only interested in her looks.

But if that were the case, Other-Martin would have awkwardly flirted and been rejected within the first week of knowing her, which meant that the attraction was to her _personality._ In other words, _his_ personality.

No. Douglas was ever the pragmatist, and he could work around that. She had said herself that they were different, because of _subtle_ changes in the way people treated them. Which meant _subtle differences_ in the way that they were, who they were.

And wasn’t it the subtle things that people really fell in love with? Yes. Yes it was, or Douglas would never be able to face _his_ Martin again. The thought made him feel all…wobbly, and he didn’t know why.

He looked back to the mirror on the back of the door, and sure enough, Other-Martin and Deborah were still chatting, though about what he wasn’t sure. Suddenly, Deborah’s face lit up, and she slapped her hands down on the desk, splaying them out excitedly.

“Martin! With all the fuss tonight, we forgot omelette Thursday!”

Douglas was at a loss as to what that even meant, but Deborah sounded distraught, in an amateur dramatics kind of way.

Other-Martin must have rolled his eyes, and he exhaled in good humour.

“I think we can last one week without you forcing me to watch Monty Python with you.” He assured her, taking on the superior but not unkind tone that he used when he thought that he was getting the upper hand in a game; in this context it sounded fonder, “and as much as I enjoy your cooking, I think it can wait another week.”

“It’s not _about_ the omelettes!” Deborah insisted, her face taking on a forced humility as she tried to force across a point that even to her own ears (let alone Douglas’s) sounded ridiculous, “It’s about you never having seen the greatest comedies I have ever known!”

“Then give me the box set and I’ll watch it at home!” Other-Martin responded, staring her down and giving as good as he got, visibly trying not to grin.

Deborah shook her head defiantly.

“Those DVDs are _never_ leaving my house; you _have_ to come ‘round mine and educate yourself, or I won’t be able to respect you properly anymore.” she explained, punctuating each word with a light fist tapping against the desk, which Other-Martin pursed his lips and shook his heads in what was an obvious attempt to frustrated her, “Learning the ways of the Python is the biggest step on the road to being _brilliant!”_

As Other-Martin chuckled and made a snide remark about how she spent too much time with Arthur, Douglas used the moment to remind himself that this friendliness wasn’t just centred on Other-Martin- there was nothing to worry about – the woman was close to _all_ the other members of MJN. Even Carolyn, it seemed, if the phone-call that morning was anything to go by. But _he_ didn’t spend time outside of work with _his_ Martin unless there was a very, very special reason for it. Like van jobs, for instance.

Douglas started listening again just as Other-Martin was telling Deborah that:

“We really should go out for dinner somewhere properly.”

The Deborah that Douglas could see in the mirror did not stiffen like she had earlier, but still paused before she retorted, which he was thankful for, although he was beginning to question if letting this bother him so much was healthy.

“It’s a lot of money just to come back and watch DVDs, Martin, I think the current system works well.” She answered, her winning smile not quite as bright as the one before.

“No, I mean _I’d_ take _you_ for dinner and pay for it all, like a nice night out.” Other-Martin elucidated, his hand gesturing accordingly between them.

Deborah shifted in her seat, and leaned back, so that there was some distance between them. When she replied, it was with the drawling sardonic purr that had been otherwise abandoned during the conversation.

“Are you asking me on a date, Captain?”

“ _No!”_ Other-Martin said hastily, his hand making an all-together different movement as he back-tracked, “No – just to make up for all the dinners that you’ve cooked with the films, and the packed lunches you’ve brought on flights.” He explained; Douglas fought an exasperated sigh – he himself had provided _his_ Martin with lunches once or twice, but it appeared that Deborah had made it a regular thing, “and anyway, all I could afford at the moment is something from the Chippie down the road.”

Douglas watched as Deborah nodded in understanding. She didn’t say anything, and he began to wish that she would; he was only now realising how stiff his back was, and the longer he stood there, pressed against the wall of Other-Carolyn’s office, the more he would ache in the morning.

His wish was granted moments later, although not in the way he had intended.

“You know what Martin? I’m rather in the mood for fried rubbish.” Deborah said slowly, and she peered across the desk at the Captain, who practically perked up as his eyes widened, “it’s been ages since I went to a Chip Shop; in fact, I’m rather looking forward to it now.”

“ _Really_?” Other-Martin asked, his voice steeped in disbelief as he raised himself up from the desk.

“But of course.” Deborah smiled wanly, as if she were resisting the pull of the grin that overtook Other-Martin’s face. There was still hope though, Douglas told himself, nothing concrete had actually occurred to validate any suspicions.

He didn’t know why, but it was deathly important, in that moment, that Deborah and Other-Martin were not attracted to each other, and were just in a very affectionate friendship that tread the boundaries of correct social interactions.

“Now?” Other-Martin asked, checking his watch. If anyone were to see his face, they would think that the stars had descended and were singing him lullabies.

Deborah took that as confirmation rather than a question, and swung herself up from her chair.

“Excellent!” she announced, and with that she strode across the Porta-cabin. She was momentarily lost from the mirror, but Douglas nudged the door ever so slightly so that he could see her taking her coat from the coat-rack (one more useless thing that the woman had installed) and turning on her heel to meet Other-Martin, who had followed her over.

She didn’t move to allow him to reach his travel-coat, which the man would inevitably wear over his pilot’s jacket (some things never changed). Instead, she blatantly locked eyes with him as he stubbornly reached around her.

Douglas couldn’t see Other-Martin’s face until the pair turned slightly, and Other-Martin, coat hanging limp in his hand, failed to move out of Deborah’s space, instead (judging by the way that his head tilted, and his bottom lips disappeared between his teeth) raking his eyes down her form. She very visibly glanced down as he did, and Douglas held his breath as one of Other-Martin’s hands flitted swiftly to brush at the hair that was hanging over her face; he did nothing to move the brown lock, but it made Deborah smirk, and her hands came up to his chest to push him away lightly so that she could sweep to the door.

The rush of relief that their imminent departure brought was tainted by the way that their low chuckling carried until the door clicked shut behind the Captain, and the horrible certainty that Douglas now found himself with.

If he were a woman, he and Martin would be all over each other.


	9. Chapter Nine

It was well past midnight, the sky was a deep blue, washed out by the dull amber street lights that filtered through the cotton curtains. Douglas inhaled slowly and deeply, measuring his breathing as he eyed the small squares of glass over the front door of the flat from his position in the sitting room.

The events that he had witnessed somersaulted and whirled about his head, and he found himself tumbling down a dreary path of suspended anxiety. Martin’s presence in the room only helped to increase Douglas’ discomfort; Arthur had retreated to the spare room of Deborah’s flat, under the assurance that if it were _him_ Douglas wouldn’t have minded, but Martin, despite Douglas’ waspish assurances, had remained to scan through one of the woman’s books by the light of the overhead lamps.

But the Captain was easy to ignore; it was one of his many talents. Douglas wasn’t sure if Deborah’s flat unsettled him, or if the familiarity was unsettling. Almost everything was set up identically to how his own ground level flat, in his own Fitton, was arranged. The front door opened out into the sitting room, which in turn led into an open kitchen intersected by a faux marble island, which curled around the small square tea table. To the right of the entrance, where the sitting room was on the left, there was a door which led into a moderate hall and its adjoining bathroom, bedroom, and guest room.

It was in the guest room, set up just as Douglas’ was, undecorated but furnished in preparation for a child that carried all their possessions _with_ them, that Arthur currently slept; Deborah wouldn’t mind, Douglas had informed him, _he_ wouldn’t.

It was so eerie, to be right at home, and yet feel so out of place. The walls were painted the same pale purple, the sitting room was lined on one side by tall oak bookcases, filled with old novels, records, and a mediocre radio set, and the opposite wall was kitted out with cheap shelves that raised the TV and other household items as if discarded. The knee-high coffee table, which played host only to cardboard coasters and a bowl of those glass beads meant for vases, was framed by the tatty dark green sofas, which Douglas knew without asking that Deborah had taken from her parents’ house shortly after moving in, and held onto through each aborted relationship.

There were a few differences though, and that was what set Douglas’ teeth on edge as he let his eyes lumber across the room. The sound of a car engine revving outside made him twitch where he was slouched in the sofa nearest the door, but Douglas cursed himself inwardly, setting his train of thoughts back on the previous track, scraping his nails against the rough fabric of the sofa over the marks of the same action having been performed by somebody else.

Next to the TV, where there should have been an empty space, or an empty mug (Douglas couldn’t recall), there were in fact four photographs, all in shiny wooden frames – new then, not cherished family heirlooms utilised because they happened to be there. In fact, Douglas was a little surprised by the subject of the photographs.

There was one of a young girl with a striking resemblance to Deborah; this Douglas could understand – the smiling child was not his daughter, it couldn’t have been what with his wife and her boyfriend being different people, but Deborah loved her as much as he did his own Verity.

It was the other three that made Douglas’ breath catch, he suspected in sentimentality. The largest was a wide shot of the four members of the alternate MJN, with Arthur and Carolyn close together on one side, and Other-Martin and Deborah stood on the other, turned towards each other slightly with proud smiles on their faces. It must have been for another advertisement, but the fact that it had been kept and displayed suggested a soppiness that Douglas would not have been so ready to reveal.

The final two pictures depicted Deborah and Other-Martin, in uniform, obviously taken at the air-field. The first looked posed, as if they had finished the group photo and then taken a pilots only shot; they were within inches, leaning into each other, smiling stiffly but contentedly at the camera. The second seemed to have caught them by surprise; they were seated beside each other, Deborah sans the jacket and her hair rearranged messily atop her head, obviously deep in conversation moments before, with Other-Martin’s arm resting loosely around her lower back. Both of their faces were tinted red, and if he were sentimental, Douglas would have said that their eyes were glowing with prematurely abandoned words.

Douglas dug his fingers harder into the arm of the sofa, tensing as a surge of unnameable emotion filled his chest. At that very moment, he was certain, Deborah, his _double_ in personality and conscience, was god only knew where with Other-Martin, _flirting_ …

He allowed his gaze to wander to the other sofa, to rest on Martin, whose features were soft and crinkled as his eyes ran back and forth over the page of the book he was reading. He was folded neatly against the arm, knees brought up to lean on, and the lamp light made his ginger hair take on a coppery tinge. Douglas appreciated Martin’s attempt at solidarity via remaining present, he really did, but as much as he wanted him to stay, he also wanted his friend very far away.

If he were honest with himself, though contemplating what Deborah was up to with Other-Martin made his stomach churn, he envied how easy their relationship was. True, he and Martin were close – _hell,_  Martin was his closest friend…but the idea of romantic, or god forbid, sexual feelings intruding upon their careful formed friendship was unthinkable.

Douglas wasn’t meant to be alone, he knew that; he was a romantic, and if he had the choice he would absolutely be settled down in the comfortable life. Although it made him uncomfortable, he couldn’t blame Deborah…if he could find someone with whom he had a genuine connection, a sense of trust, a friend with whom he shared a mutual attraction and loyalty, then he would be a fool not to grasp that opportunity with his most desperate grip.

But it was _Martin_ – Other or not, it was still _Martin_. Douglas’ best friend…Douglas didn’t want to think about it, but it was as if a dam had broken and a flood was destined to fill its place. As he continued to watch the Captain reading, Douglas acknowledged that _yes_ , they were compatible; they worked together well enough as friends, and he couldn’t quite imagine moving on to a life without the prissy man with whom he shared a flight-deck. Except…he wasn’t attracted to him.

Douglas had always, and still did (to his knowledge) liked women, found women appealing, and regardless of his fondness for Martin, could not pluck up any feelings of attraction. Of course, he wasn’t blind; the young man was handsome, and his toned cheeks, freckles, and red hair were attractive on their own…but give him the man as a whole, and at no point in his contemplations would Douglas imagine any desire to kiss, to caress.

It was hard enough forcing himself to picture hugging him.

He didn’t _want_ to be attracted to Martin – it would ruin _everything._ He didn’t _want_ to have to think about his sexuality and question whether it was worth experimenting for the sake of one person, when he could just as easily exist without changing a thing. Would that even make him happier? So Deborah and Other-Martin made soppy eyes at each other across the room – _so what?_ It didn’t matter, Douglas assured himself.

“Are you alright?” It was asked gently, but Douglas jerked nonetheless, realising a moment too late that he had been staring at Martin for a while.

Martin didn’t appear to mind though, as he had closed the book in his lap and was looking back at Douglas with a perplexed crease between his eyebrows and concern slipping into his expression.

“Yes of _course_ I’m fine.” Douglas replied snappily, regretting the harshness of his tone the second that he heard it; Martin nodded, looking unconvinced, but Douglas tried to lower his misdirected frustrations, “Why do I keep getting asked that?”

“Because you don’t seem yourself.” Martin stated matter-of-factly; he placed the book on the sofa beside him and let his legs slide to the floor, allowing him to lean forward on his elbows and address Douglas more intimately; it was quiet enough that Douglas could hear the polyester brushing against the sofa and Martin’s slow exhale, “I’m worried about you.”

Douglas shook his head fractionally, making a dismissive motion with his hand despite the affectionate gratefulness that prickled in his throat at the admission.

“Well you needn’t worry, Captain.” Douglas said, attempting a semblance of confident swagger in his voice, “Everything will be tickety-boo tomorrow when we go home.”

Martin didn’t look convinced, but he drew his lips between his teeth as he considered his words before letting them loose with a sympathetic smile.

“You’re missing home as much as I am then?” he asked, as if he knew the answer already.

Douglas shrugged and sank further into his seat; there was no point mustering up a false projection of faith with Martin, so he just tried not to let his frown grow too extreme as he evaded the question as best he could.

“I suppose…and Arthur misses his mother.” He sighed, acknowledging as Martin nodded, his eyebrows rising as he dropped his head down to run his hand through his ginger hair, ruffling it to a near bedridden state, “You should go to sleep – if I’m right, then Deborah’s got a fold-up bed under the spare one in the guest room.”

Martin narrowed his eyes, and wove his hands together, but Douglas couldn’t detect anything other than genuine concern.

“I could stay here, keep you company if you want.” Martin offered, but Douglas shook his head; he needed time alone, as much as he wanted Martin to stay and talk to him, to get his head in order.

“No, you’re alright, go to bed Martin.” Douglas answered quickly, leaving his Captain no time to argue; when they shared hotel rooms, Martin never normally needed persuasion to go to sleep and leave Douglas to entertain himself. He must have looked awful.

To Douglas’ relief, Martin obeyed without too much fuss, muttering under his breath that he was just down the hall, that if Douglas needed anything…the list went on. Douglas watched with a detached attention as Martin rose to his feet, stretching his back, arms outstretched and his muscles clicking and protesting, a pleasant expression of strain and then success contorting his features along with the movement that pushed out his chest and defined his arms.

Without further ado Martin crossed the room, tracking slowly behind the two sofas on his way to the hall; as he passed behind Douglas he dropped a companionable pat on his shoulder, which Douglas began to reciprocate by raising his hand, but aborted even as Martin was moving on.

Douglas heard the door click shut behind him, and listened to Martin’s footsteps until they faded into nothing. With no one left to occupy his mind, he turned his head back towards the door, slumping further into the cushions as he drove away his mounting uncertainty by awaiting the return of his doppelganger.

***

Douglas wasn’t sure how long he sat, alone in the sitting room, ruminating in the addled mess that was his head, before the panes of glass above the door lit up, followed by the sound of a sputtering engine pulling up onto the drive.

The grumbling cut out abruptly, and Douglas stiffened in his seat as two snaps signalled the slamming of van doors, and low, murmuring voices drifted into the flat. The door swung open, and Douglas prepared to get up, to make himself known before he witnessed something that he didn’t even want to imagine, but he paused when nobody stumbled through.

The door was opened inwards, enough that Douglas could see onto the doorstep, but rather than enter, Deborah stepped into view, moving backwards until her back was almost against the wooden frame. Other-Martin was close at her heels, and he was leaning in, close, but everything looked conversational.

“Shh, no shh…we can’t go in, we’ll disturb them.” Deborah whispered, grinning and raising a finger to her lips as Other-Martin nodded; even in shadow, it wasn’t difficult for Douglas to identify the daring, self-aware expression on his face, the same one that Martin got when he thought that he was getting the upper-hand.

“Then just…just hang on a minute…” Other-Martin answered, just as quietly, hooking his fingers around Deborah’s elbow and turning her gently away from the door.

Deborah’s cheeks were taken over by a warm smile, and leaning back into the wooden frame, she brought her hands up to fiddle with Other-Martin’s tie, eyes drifting down only to meet his as he shifted forward with the motion, leaning one hand against the wall.

“You know Martin, if that _was_ a date, then it went _very_ successfully.” Deborah drawled lightly; Douglas surrendered himself to resignation upon taking in the entranced light in Other-Martin’s eyes, though the man didn’t take the opaque hint that Deborah was dropping, to Douglas’ dismay.

“ _Really?”_ Other-Martin murmured, finally looking unsure of himself; he cleared his throat, raising a hand to his mouth as his eyes darted about nervously, “Are you sure- I – uh-”

“Oh, come here,” Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes before, to Douglas’ silent horror, she tilted forward, raising her hands to press lightly at Other-Martin’s cheeks, and pressing her lips to his.

Other-Martin’s eyebrows rose instantly, and he let out a startled sound, but his hands slid unbidden to her waist, curling tenderly around her curves and holding lovingly. Deborah’s hair was falling in her face, hiding her expression, but she was tilting her head to meet Other-Martin’s responding kiss slowly but firmly, their lips moving in sync without either of them needing to say a word.

When Deborah pulled back for breath, her eyes fluttering down to Other-Martin’s lips as her hands brushed down to squeeze his shoulders, Other-Martin guided her backwards until her back was pressed against the door frame, recapturing her lips and curling into her eagerly, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other wandering up to drifted through her hair.

Deborah’s arms wrapped around his back, a hand stroking and caressing at his neck as the two of them embraced in earnest, giving no sign that they were going to break apart, making contented, happy noises with each movement that intertwined them even more than before.

Douglas snapped his eyes shut, dropping his head into his hand and turning away from the door; this was partly to allow them some sense of privacy, but more, he thought detachedly, because he didn’t think he could handle witnessing more.

When he looked back up, at the sound of staggered exhales, it was to see that they had broken apart, in so much as they were no longer attached at the face; Other-Martin was still leaning into Deborah, arms boxing the woman in, and Deborah’s arms were still hanging around his shoulders.

Deborah was examining his face, her chest sputtering in and out as she wordlessly analysed her colleague, an expression of thoughtful contemplation shadowing her otherwise enraptured face. Other-Martin’s eyes were shut, but his lids fluttered open to meet Deborah’s gaze, and he swallowed awkwardly, visibly, leaning backwards so that his face wasn’t so close to hers.

“Deborah we can’t – we can’t just…” Other-Martin stuttered in hushed tones; he shook his head and the confused and slightly hurt flash across Deborah’s face, and swallowed hard again, steadying himself, “Deborah…this is, this is good, this is _really_ good – but we can’t just do this, we need to talk this through, work out what-”

“Martin, I know, we need to talk this through and work out what we’re doing.” Deborah interrupted, an edge to her patience; Douglas could tell that the sternness on her face was engineered, much like the newfound stiffness of her limbs – she would know only too well how disastrously wrong relations with Other-Martin could go if handled badly, “we can do that when we’ve got rid of that lot…but this is _good_ , like you said.”

Douglas felt a pang of sympathy at the restrained caution in her tone, despite the utter misery that was building in his gut.

“It’s _good_ ,” Other-Martin replied hastily, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, “but it’s just…it’s completely unprofessional.”

“No, unprofessional would be if we were to fall into bed together on a flight and then never speak.” Deborah interjected in a clipped tone; her forehead had pinched uncomfortably and she did well at appearing wounded despite her efforts to the contrary, “There’s nothing unprofessional about two people trying for a relationship – that’s what I…don’t _you_ want…”

“I _do_ …really, I do, I absolutely _do_ want that,” Other-Martin stammered, louder than he had probably intended; his grasp on Deborah tightened as his fingers clenched in response to her upset, and his blue eyes widening with intent, “It’s just _us_ …you know what we’re like – and, I, I, we’ve _never_ discussed how we fell, and…and I just, we could mess this up so badly, and that _would_ be unprofessional if it stopped us working together – and I don’t want that to happen.”

“Well it’s worth a try…we might not mess up.” Deborah suggested, lowering her gaze so that as she murmured, she could avoid making eye contact with Other-Martin, who ducked his head to follow regardless, “and is this something where professionalism _really_ matters?”

There was a moment where Douglas hoped that Other-Martin would say that _yes, yes it did_ , whilst also hoping that the man wouldn’t ruin what he had with the woman (Douglas wasn’t heartless by a long shot), but after a tense pause, Other-Martin shook his head and ducked his head down to lean his forehead against Deborah’s.

“No,” he muttered, barely above a breath, “no it isn’t, is it.”

With that Other-Martin pressed his lips once again to Deborah’s stealing a brief but lingering kiss before stepping back completely, withdrawing his arms almost regretfully from her form. Deborah’s arms followed his path before falling to her sides, as if she were unconsciously trying to hold onto him, but she smiled a wan smile, peering up at him through her lashes.

“Go home Martin.” She sighed, wrapping her arms around her chest for warmth.

Other-Martin disappeared from Douglas’ view, but he thought that he heard him saying that he’d pick her up tomorrow.

Deborah remained in the doorway until the rumbling growl of Other-Martin’s van faded into the night, and with a long, subtle exhale, she walked slowly into the flat, pulling the door closed behind her and searching about for the light switch on the wall.

Before she could find it, Deborah turned and caught sight of the lamp lit sitting room, and by extension, Douglas, who hadn’t moved from his position, slouched in the sofa. He felt a spike of guilt at being caught having seen the entire exchange, and Deborah’s face flashed through a litany of emotions ranging from caught-in-the-headlights to stubborn consternation, but she settled on weary, and Douglas couldn’t help but empathise with her exhaustion – there had been too much emotional turmoil for either of them to deal with in one day, he wasn’t going to criticise her for enjoying a bit of it, not on second thought.

Before he could make any excuses though, Deborah raised a hand and ran it tiredly over her eyes.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow…I can’t deal with whatever you’ve got to say right now.” She exhaled, making no effort to mask her exhaustion.

Douglas wasn’t sure what he would have said if he had wanted to, so he merely nodded, momentarily hating how passive he had been behaving since the day had begun; he watched wearily as Deborah discarded her coat over the back of the other sofa, and with only a cursory acknowledging nod and strained smile, disappeared into the hall, and presumably to her bedroom.

Which left Douglas, sitting in the semi-darkness, with a resigned despair, a fountain of new thoughts to keep him awake, and far too alone in his own head.


	10. Chapter Ten

Douglas jolted awake to the sound a glass clattering and steel scraping against the stove. His first thought was of his back, which gave a painful twinge, alerting him to the fact that he had drifted fitfully to sleep in the corner seat of the sofa. Blinking hard to clear his head, he looked blearily towards the kitchen, and saw, not to his surprise, Deborah’s back as she shuffled around preparing what he assumed was coffee and breakfast.

It made sense that she was up, humming under her breath in a not unhappy manner, moving without any sense of lethargy; Douglas himself had never had any problems with mornings. True, he cared not for punctuality, but that was less because he slept in of a morning, and more because he had a myriad of things to do in the morning _before_ work.

Martin on the other hand slept in until he was aroused by person or clock, and even then was grouchy and sluggish until coffee had entered his system; no, the Captain managed to be horrifically early to everything through pure force of will.

Deborah glanced over her shoulder, and Douglas was encouraged by the small controlled smile that she shot him before turning back to the stove-top, lifting away the now whistling kettle from the flames; last night’s events aside, there did not appear to be any residual discomfort between them.

With a groan as his joints protested, Douglas heaved himself from the cushioned confines of the sofa and, taking a moment to allow the blood to rush away from his head and for the momentary dizziness to subside, wandered into the kitchen and leant tentatively against the counter. Deborah continued to pour four mugs of coffee as bacon sizzled at her elbow, but the humming had ceased, and Douglas waited patiently for her to engage him; he knew well enough that should he enter into the conversation that he wanted the wrong way, she would clam up and refuse to take it seriously – as would he.

After a few moments of indeterminate clattering, which Douglas was certain was a stalling tactic, Deborah turned on her heel, leaning back and gripping the counter behind her, meeting Douglas’ gaze with a no-nonsense glare; she was dressed for work, with her shirt untucked, but her hair was loose and fell lightly around her shoulders, making it appear a lighter shade of chestnut as it floated with the movement.

“Right…well, I’m not going to grasp at words to explain or defend myself; I don’t see why I should need to.” Deborah stated plainly, but Douglas could detect a steely edge to her otherwise clipped tone; her eyes were wide and unwavering, “So I suggest that _you_ say whatever it is that you’ve been working on since last night.”

Douglas swallowed back the indignant retort that formed at the tip of his tongue, and settled instead for nodding respectfully at the woman in front of him, who accepted this without a word, the tension leaving her shoulders as she siphoned off some of her attention to mind the bacon. He couldn’t deny that he had been unsettled by Deborah’s entrance the previous night; it had thrown him through a loop, and he still wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with the idea. But it wasn’t any of his business, not really, and save for his precious sensitivities, didn’t need to affect him; after hours of running every confrontation and denial through his head, Douglas had eventually come to realise that all he could ask for was to understand for his own peace of mind.

“Exactly what are your feelings regarding your Martin…and why _Martin_?” Douglas inquired stiltedly, realising only once he had said the words that they had been unnecessarily harsh and accusatory.

Deborah took this in her stride, maintaining her stern façade while quirking a solitary eyebrow in recognition, nodding imperceptibly in a way that Douglas was sure was reassurance that she knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. Inhaling measuredly, ducking her eyes to gather her thoughts, Deborah folded her arms neatly over her chest before meeting Douglas’ gaze. There was no trace of guilt, but perhaps some uncertainty, and…Douglas thought it might have been pity, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Martin is my closest friend…I…am extremely fond of him, I care about him as a friend and in regards to certain…romantic feelings.” Deborah reeled off a list, and the way that she held Douglas’ gaze, he was sure that she was being deliberately provocative, “What would you like me to _say_? You _saw_ how I feel about Martin.”

“I just don’t understand _how!”_ Douglas replied testily, squaring his jaw and knuckling down in order that he could face Deborah without wavering, despite the tenseness of his voice; his grip on the counter behind him increased, “How does one – one who is in essence _me_ – connect the ideas of _Martin_ and _romance?_ I’ve spent as long as you have with _mine_ , and I have yet to fall in _love_ with the man!”

Deborah rolled her eyes, and a small but almost unconscious smile curled the tip of her lips.

“Love doesn’t happen over time, that just solidifies the relationship.” She remarked, as if this were common knowledge that Douglas should have been aware of; as loathe as he was to admit it, the sentiment _did_ appeal to his inner romantic, “Falling in love with someone happens in a split second; all the time after that is just realising what you’re feeling, acknowledging that, accepting it, and then deciding whether or not to act on it.”

Douglas pursed his lips at the self-gratuitous smile on Deborah’s face, and then stopped when he realised how petulant that made him look, and that it only confirmed his agreement.

“My point still stands that _I_ have yet to encounter any such moment with _my_ Martin, and doubt that I ever will...” he argued, and held Deborah’s brown eyed gaze; if that was how it felt to argue with _him_ , then he actually felt sorry for all the times that he had glared so condescendingly down at Martin and Arthur; shoulders sagging, Douglas asked with genuine cautious curiosity, “What do you think made you fall so head over heels for your _gallant_ Captain?”

“I, _uh_ …” Deborah trailed off, mouth opening and closing delicately, and her eyes dropped to trace the floor, glazing over slightly; when she answered, it was in a slow measured tone, which was tinged with a subtle wondering sentimentality, “We were on stand-by – this was about a year after Martin joined MJN…and he made me laugh, I can’t remember what about, and then he said,” at this she broke off and released a nostalgic, sighed laugh before continuing, “he said he’d wanted to be an _aeroplane_ …it was just such a _Martin_ thing to say, I just...it was such an ‘ _oh darling’_ moment, and I…well, I was far nicer to him after that.” Deborah concluded, finally meeting Douglas’ eyes again, “I can’t say that in that moment I thought I was in love with him though.”

Douglas swallowed awkwardly, nodding without much more of an idea as to how to respond; he eyed the edge of the faux marble counter where his fingers currently picked at the same spot that it appeared Deborah had picked many times.

“I know that Martin has certain… _redeeming features_ \- he’s my closest friend for a reason – but _really_ ,” Douglas sighed, shaking his head at his own inability to understand Deborah’s motivations; it was the fuel underneath the fires of his own internal conflict, “why are you so enamoured by him?”

Deborah shrugged and took a moment to adjust the temperature on the stove, shifting the bacon around in the pan and inhaling deeply to breathe in the wafting scent; Douglas didn’t push, but he wished that she would see the urgency of his requests…perhaps she did, and thought that he would be better for the wait. To the soundtrack of fizzling crackles, Deborah turned back to Douglas and shrugged again, her face open as if their discussion were no serious matter.

“He’s just…he’s _Martin_ …he’s…he’s _funny._ ” She explained, and Douglas’ temper flared inconsequentially at the banality of the statement.

“I know for a matter of fact that Martin is _terrible_ at jokes, in fact he actively fails in his execution of them.” Douglas remarked , pressing himself back into the counter for a lack of anything better to do.

Deborah had to audacity to laugh at this, a low, trilling and curling sound. Douglas raised his eyebrows in warning, but Deborah ploughed on, posture slumping as her arms extended in their hold upon the counter behind her, and her head actually tipped back, making her hair catch in the light coming in through the window.

“But that’s _funny_!” she insisted, ignoring Douglas’ contemptuous frown, “He messes up so beautifully, it’s _funny_ – not just in a _ha-ha_ way…he’s just _funny_. And he does manage to be deliberately funny when he’s relaxed; when there aren’t any passengers and it’s just us.”

Douglas exhaled loudly, just so that he could expel his frustrations adequately without storming out in a strop, which he was very much inclined to do in that moment; he thought that he heard a growl escape his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to care – it was that or feel like a grounded child in a warped reflection of his own home.

“I still find it hard to believe that someone with _my_ feelings, _my_ personality, _my_ …self-ness, would fall in love with Martin on the basis that he’s _funny_.” Douglas muttered, loud enough for Deborah to hear, and nod, letting out an ‘ _ah_ ’ of understanding.

“Oh, I see what your problem is.” She announced, and Douglas glanced up at her, staring expectantly for her to reveal whatever sizzling epiphany she had come to, “Regardless of how we’re the same, Douglas, I’m _not_ you. And you are not me, and so just because I love Martin, does not mean that you have to…I mean, you might, but I don’t think you do.”

Despite her assurance, Douglas was thankful that she _was_ close enough to him that he didn’t have to open up himself; Deborah may be fine talking about her feelings and such, but he wasn’t about to do that, not any time soon.

Douglas opened his mouth to state exactly where the flaws in her hypothesis were, regarding the radical extent of his inner conflict, the turbulent mess of feelings that he was struggling to attach to Martin, and a variety of other stray thoughts that had been haunting him in a way they had never done before he had arrived in that damned universe, but Deborah cut him off, raising one fingers elegantly into the air to shut him up while her other hand moved the frying pan from the heat and onto the colder stove top.

“Look at it this way,” Deborah suggested, taking on a tone that Douglas thought she might have used when settling disputes with Other-Arthur, “If your Martin were to come to you and say that he had had a think, and that he’s madly in love with you, in the physical and emotional sense…how would you react?”

Thrown off slightly, Douglas thought quickly, answering with his instinctual reaction; he thought that he could see where Deborah was going, but it was too soon to hope.

“Well… I mean, I’d be flattered, obviously; considering how often he complains about me, any declaration of affection would be a massive compliment-” Douglas caught sight of the look on Deborah’s face and eased his grip on the counter behind him, clearing his throat, “But I can’t say that I would return said sentiments…I am happy to have him as my friend, my best friend, but I don’t wish to enter a relationship with the man-”

“There’s your answer!” Deborah interjected, extending her hand before her and thinning her lips in an ‘isn’t it obvious’ expression that Douglas wanted to wipe away and simultaneously adopt himself, as for the first time since the previous morning, chatting to Carolyn in the Porta-Cabin, he felt the choking fog begin to lift within his head.

“So what you’re saying is that due to mine and Martin’s genders and sexualities, I am destined to spend the rest of my life alone.” Douglas verified, in a plaintive tone, edging towards sarcasm but falling at the last hurdle.

Deborah scoffed and shook her head, drawing a hand carelessly through her loose hair.

“Just because you’re not _in love_ with him in a romantic sense doesn’t mean you can’t love him to bits in a platonic sense.” She drawled, in a melodic, all knowing lilt that Douglas supposed was meant to make her sound authoritative and confident, “You could both lose your jobs but it wouldn’t matter so long as you stuck together.”

Douglas hummed in assent, and watched as Deborah turned her attentions back to the kitchen, placing bacon and bread onto separate plates (taken from the correct cupboards according to _his_ kitchen), and muttering that if they (Douglas assumed she meant Martin and Arthur) wanted to eat they’d have to get up and find it.

An almost peaceful calm, or as near to it as he could get given the circumstances, seemed to settle over Douglas; with the internal conflict over his own feelings towards Martin apparently so easily laid bare before him, it was like a weighty cloud being wafted slowly but surely from the backs of those beneath it. Another thought occurred, and spurred on by his regained sense of universal certainty, Douglas threw tact to the wind.

“So do you think your Martin would still fancy you if you were male?” he inquired, allowing some of his usual swagger to enter his voice.

As he had expected, rather than reacting with offence or throwing something at him, Deborah took it in her stride and actually smirked lasciviously.

“I actually asked him that last night, after we got past the fumbling and spluttering,” Deborah revealed, and Douglas thanked the fates that she didn’t elaborate, though the glint in her eyes told him that she could have if she pleased.

“And?” he prompted, earning another self-satisfied smirk.

“After saying ‘ _yes of course I would like you, we’re friends’.”_ Deborah, Douglas had to admit, was as excellent a mimic as he was, and mirrored Martin’s accent with a practiced fondness, “he _did_ comment on my far superior aesthetic appeal and, um, well,” she dropped her voice into a sultry drawl, “made some other rather naughtier comments before remembering that he was a professional and an upstanding gentleman and spluttering out an apology.”

Deborah’s expression had lit up into one of complete adoration, as her eyes darkened and misted as she gazed somewhere between her hands and the opposite counter, and her lips melted into an involuntary seductive smile.

“It was very funny.” She concluded on a lighter note; Douglas, however felt a familiar surge of victory and the charming thrill that came with possessing a hand full of metaphorical cards.

He knew exactly which side of Martin Crieff Deborah was talking about, he had seen it many a time, when the Captain let his guard down and joined in the games, or the schemes. He also recognised that look on her face, even if it was distorted through the less of contorted gender.

“Oh, I _see_.” Douglas drew out the syllables as well as he could, savouring each one as Deborah raised one eyebrow delicately, daring him to go on, “All that rubbish about Martin being funny was just a cover up for what you _really_ like, and that’s-”

“He’s a little shit.” Deborah interrupted, unabashed; Douglas halted, looking the woman up and down appraisingly; he wouldn’t have worded it quite like that, but he was intrigued to hear what point she was going to make, “On the surface Martin’s all prissy and assertive, and a bit of an arse, but underneath…well, he’s still an arse,” she conceded, earning a cursory nod before she continued, “but he’s also a mischievous little shit, with a very naughty mind.”

“I can believe that,” Douglas added with a low chuckle, “On one of our recent trips he actually came up with a scheme involving fraud and kidnapping Mr B.”

“Oh Darling,” Deborah muttered wistfully, as if Martin could hear her say it, before meeting Douglas’ gaze with a cheerful grin, “He is a sweetheart though.”

“Really?” Douglas retorted; his back gave a cursory twinge, as if to tell him that if he didn’t move he would suffer later, but Douglas couldn’t bring himself to walk away from the most fruitful conversation he had had in a very long time, so he settled himself as comfortably as he could against the faux marble.

Deborah crossed the space to place a warm cup of coffee in his hand, and place a plate of still steaming bacon beside his elbow (which he ignored, still too unsettled to want to eat – he’d see how the coffee went, and then have a go). When she rested against the counter opposite him, hands curled around her own mug, it was with another adoring, wistful glow that she started speaking, slowly, as if testing the words.

“A while ago, I think it was the trip after the bird-strike in St Petersburg, we were in this bar in Madrid, and I’m not sure how it happened, but some pilots from another airline must have seen the stripes on Martin’s sleeve and they joined us at the bar.” Douglas watched the way that Deborah’s smile slipped and her eyes darkened, but remained silent despite his misgivings, “I think Martin was counting his lucky stars that they just assumed we were a proper airline, so he was having a good old laugh with them – as much as one can when one is terminally oblivious to proper social traditions…anyway,” she shook her head as she shook away the tangent, “they were a bit leery, stared a bit too much at my chest, which I can cope with – I’m used to it. I went to the other side of the bar to get Martin and I another drink each, partly to get away from the bloody misogynists, and when I get back,” at this Deborah’s face lit up slightly, and she adopted a look of detached amazement, which only piqued Douglas’ curiosity, “when I get back, they’re all standing apart, and Martin has got his grumpy Captain face on and is telling them, and I quote, _she is a skilled and talented professional, and will be treated with the same amount of respect as any other member of my crew._ And then he decided that we were leaving.”

“ _Martin_ said that?” Douglas asked, trying not to sound as if he had just been told that unicorns existed. It sounded like a Martin-y thing to _try_ and say, but the sentiment behind it was off – then again, if he _was_ in love with her, then the man had taken a golden opportunity to level the playing field.

“Well, there was a lot more spluttering, and he made that funny noise with his throat.” Deborah answered with a conspiratorial smile, which Douglas nodded in return to, sharing his inward despair, even as Deborah regained the swooning glow that Douglas was starting to resent once again, if only because _he_ wanted her attention in that moment, “It was good though…he’s really learnt to be assertive without coming across as such an arse.”

Douglas let out another warm chuckle, and Deborah took this as her cue to begin sliding the used pans into the sink. It was strange, he thought, that just a few hours previous he had been tearing himself apart over the idea of Deborah and Other-Martin holding even a lingering affection for each other, and now here he was, accepting it to an extent.

He had been have some sort of crisis about whether _he_ should be in love with _his_ Martin, and well, it was clear now just how ridiculous he had been. That said, they still needed to have a long talk about what Douglas had gleaned; Martin was still in the dark, but Douglas wasn’t and that would affect everything he said to his friend from then on.

All that left was the small problem of getting a knackered old plane back to its own universe. A problem which Douglas was now feeling mildly prepared to tackle.

Douglas looked back to Deborah, who was staring, forehead crinkled, at the two cooling plates of food. He knew that she was inwardly scolding herself for forgetting that neither of them would awaken without intervention; at least, he assumed that she was – he thought that it was fair to assume that _her_ versions of Martin and Arthur were equally lazy people in the morning.

“I should go and wake them up, shouldn’t I?” she asked ruefully, not bothering to meet Douglas’ gaze this time, pursing her lips instead.

“Only if you want to be at the air-field at a sensible time.” Douglas noted, smirking at the judgemental glare that he received as the woman sighed in a put upon manner, and strode purposefully from the kitchen and towards the hall, where the guest room was hidden. He decided a second later that he might as well follow, for the laughs if nothing else.


	11. Chapter Eleven

As Douglas had desired, watching Deborah rouse his sleeping colleagues had been worth watching. Martin had, as expected, ignored the initial cooing, but Deborah had apparently spent many a morning in hotel rooms on a Martin-waking duty of her own; without warning, she had whipped the pillow from under his head, and then curled her hand around his shoulder, shaking him gently into consciousness.

Douglas couldn’t resist the chuckle that escaped him at the sight of his Captain humming in response to the female voice, and then realising where he was, his expression stiffening as his eyes snapped open wide, eyebrows leaping upwards as he jolted drearily into a half sitting position, arms crossed across his front.

“What – what are you doing?” Martin demanded, even as Deborah rolled her eyes and informed him that there was breakfast in the kitchen.

As Martin pulled himself from the camp-bed that he had found, straightening his uniform as best as he could considering that he had slept in it, he moved closer to Douglas, shuffling to his side in the doorway; he looked miserable and frustrated, but Douglas had seen that expression enough times to know that one coffee and his Captain would be his usual droll self.

“Did you stay up all night?” Martin inquired, lowering his voice so that only Douglas could hear.

Douglas shook his head, meeting Martin’s concerned gaze and for the first time since last night feeling as if he could meet the man’s blue eyes without feeling guilty for something he hadn’t done.

“No, I just…I had some things to work out.” Douglas explained, smiling wanly to placate Martin’s unwavering inspection. Martin pursed his lips, but he nodded slowly, accepting the fact that Douglas wasn’t going to pour his heart out any time soon.

Instead of passing through the doorway and into the hall, Martin turned back to watch Deborah try to rouse the ever-log-like Arthur with an admirable show of patience; he folded his arms over his chest and settled in such a way that their arms were brushing comfortably together in companionable proximity.

Finally Arthur’s eyes snapped open, and after a few moments of bleary confusion, his lips adopted a wide smile and he immediately began talking to Deborah about whether she liked cooking as much as Douglas did.

Something about the scene prompted Douglas into action, and he turned back to Martin before he could think his way out of what he had to say.

“Martin – I need to talk to you,” Douglas said, too quickly to his own ears, but Martin nodded, an eyebrow quirked, but trusting nonetheless, “Without them; just us.”

Martin exhaled, and it didn’t take a genius to see that the gears in his head were turning; maybe not reaching the right conclusions, but attempting a resolution.

“Sure…I’ll just go and use the bathroom…be out in a minute.” Martin suggested, and Douglas nodded before remembering that it wasn’t _his_ flat.

In tandem, the both of them peered towards where Deborah had perched on the edge of her guest bed to continue her conversation with Arthur.

“She won’t mind; just don’t be long.” Douglas assured Martin; before the Captain could utter anything to the contrary, Douglas placed a hand at the centre of his back and propelled him lightly into the hall, ignoring the indignant splutter that escaped his lips.

Martin scoffed as he turned about in the hall, and though he tried to glare at Douglas in an authoritative manner, the expression melted into a more lenient and disparaging one, on the precipice of a smile. Without further ado, he sauntered away, disappearing into the third room he tried; the second having been an airing cupboard.

Douglas didn’t fight the warmth the fluttered in his gut at the sight, but made sure to mentally berate any stray grey matter that decided to attribute it to anything other than a newfound freedom to acknowledge his fondness for his friend.

He didn’t have too long to ponder this, as he was forced to retreat further against the doorframe as Arthur passed, halting his outpour of words only once he acknowledged that Douglas was there, so wrapped up had he been in nattering to Deborah, who had followed slowly behind, nodding with a patient, humouring smile below her bemused brown eyes.

“Are you coming to breakfast Douglas?” Arthur inquired, as Douglas stepped aside to let the woman enter without having to brush up against him as Arthur had done. Deborah peered up at him as well, but the sideways glance down the hall revealed that she had some idea of his answer already.

“Maybe later, Arthur.” Douglas replied politely, pleased to hear that he was recapturing his usual calm, “I’ll just wait here to use the bathroom after Martin’s finished.”

“Oh, alright.” Arthur nodded, accepting this without too much thought. Deborah smiled encouragingly, and Douglas shook his head, having no desire to even contemplate whatever she thought he _really_ meant.

Douglas watched, amused, letting their conversation wash over him as Arthur began making his way down the hall towards the kitchen. Deborah hooked her arm through his in a friendly way, and though he looked mildly surprised, and a little pleased, Arthur made no conscious effort to react, merely continuing as before.

“But think about it – it would be brilliant if you could fly fighter planes!” he was telling her, the epitome of Arthur-ish sincerity.

“Ah, but we can’t fly fighter planes.” Deborah argued in mock severity, “The spinning would set off Martin’s inner ear problem.”

“Oh yeah…” Arthur replied, and Douglas couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation, as the two of them disappeared from sight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Moments later, there was a swish of a door opening over carpet from the other end of the hall, and Douglas glanced over his shoulder to see Martin peering around the doorframe of the bathroom, his nose crinkled and his eyes narrowed in a facsimile of sneakiness.

Douglas rolled his eyes and made a summoning motion with his hand, before slipping back into the bedroom. He knew that he couldn’t keep what he had discussed to himself, it would drive him mad, and he was entirely aware that the longer he kept it to himself, the harder it would get to divulge. No, it was important that Martin know; for Douglas’ peace of mind if nothing else.

Martin thankfully closed the door behind him, and Douglas didn’t think that he looked worried at all, aside from the infinitesimal concern that he still maintained whenever he laid his eyes upon his friend.

Douglas took in a deep breath, readying himself; he wasn’t sure how Martin would react. There was the possibility that he would nod and accept with grace, and that was the ideal option…but there was also the chance that Martin would overanalyse everything and descend into sheer panic.

“Douglas…what’s wrong?” Martin asked, and Douglas realised that he had been standing, hands clenched together, for quite a while trying to find the best way to vent his own mounting issues, “Did something happen last night? Did you think of a way to get us home?”

“You could say that something happened last night, Martin.” Douglas sighed, and then decided to push ahead before he could talk himself out of it, “I discovered that Deborah and Other-you are _dating_.”

It was lucky that they were in a bedroom, as Martin’s didn’t quite collapse, but did stumble backwards until he was parked on the edge of the bed, hands coming together and apart in surprise as his mouth clapped in tandem.

Douglas averted his eyes for a moment, admiring how clean this carpet was in comparison to his own, and when he looked up again Martin’s cheeks were flushed a light pink.

“Are you _sure?”_ Martin retorted in disbelief, and he shook his head, a sardonic smile twisting the corner of his lips, “I mean, they’re practically _us_ – are you sure you’re not just mistaken?”

Douglas took the time before replying to rest his weight on the thin chest of drawers that sat against the wall.

“When she got back last night he had his tongue down her throat.” Douglas stated plainly, and allowed himself to revel for just a moment in the charming shade of red that Martin flushed in a fraction of a second as his eyes widened.

Martin let out a slow, whistling breath, meeting Douglas’ eyes meaningfully; well, at least he wasn’t panicking. To Douglas’ relief, the Captain seemed to be sharing his own distanced bewilderment and shock.

“ _Well…_ ” Martin drawled, in much the same tone of voice as he had used the first time that Carolyn had admitted interest in dating via dog walks; his next words made Douglas’ hope for an understanding sink as it became apparent that Martin was attempting denial at all costs, “I mean…it can’t be anything _serious_ …” Martin made a definitive gesture with his hands, “I bet it’s just…a man and a woman that spend so much time together, in such a small space – and who’re friends besides…it _can’t_ be serious, because that would mean-”

Douglas’ temper flared once again, and he interrupted Martin before he could natter on any more; as if _he_ hadn’t run through every possible idea in an attempt to find a less awkward conclusion.

“Martin, this morning Deborah practically declared her undying love for him,” he snapped, and Martin froze, his eyebrows rising to new heights on his forehead; in for a penny, in for a pound, Douglas decided, “and from the sound of it he’s just as enamoured.”

Martin dropped his eyes and inspected his fingernails, before pursing his lips and looking up once again, shrugging his shoulders lopsidedly.

“But, just _physically_ though – they love each other in a physical sense,” Martin implored, and it sounded hollow even to Douglas’ ears, “because otherwise it’s _them_ , and they’re _us_ , and…”

“If it helps, I’m not in love with you.” Douglas interjected, cutting Martin off before he could venture into waters that neither of them wanted to breach. Martin’s reaction was immediate, and filled with such a familiar spluttering that Douglas couldn’t help but be comforted, despite the actual words that were being said.

“Oh, God no! Of course not – I don’t love you either, not at all!” Martin insisted, raising his hands into a defensive gesture, as if the very thought offended him. Douglas scoffed, cutting off a chuckle that formed against his will.

“Charming Captain, I’m wounded, I truly am.” Douglas drawled good-naturedly; that had been easier than he thought it would, not nearly as world-shatteringly uncomfortable, “Does this mean our harmless flirting must come to an end, now that I know I’m without a chance?”

“Well let’s not go too far, dear.” Martin shot back, a tentative smile curling his lips where the defiant one had been moments before. As Martin descended into low, rolling laughter, Douglas gave up his own efforts at holding back his own chuckles, and the noise filled the room, creating a lightness that had been missing since they had stepped aboard GERTI the previous day.

With a sigh, calming his breathing as quiet crept back, Douglas cleared his throat and ensured Martin’s attention; he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he backed down before he could try, a twinkle of fear still shining in the back of his mind, regardless of how well things had been going.

“I think we should join them before they come searching.” Douglas suggested, inclining his head towards the door to the guest room, quirking his eyebrow.

Martin nodded quickly, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as he clasped his hands together, and hoisted himself to his feet, looking about the room as if searching for a lost item that he had yet to identify even in his mind.

“So…let’s go then.” Martin said awkwardly.

“Yes, let’s.” Douglas replied, and rather than wait for Martin to take the lead, he adjusted his shirt about his shoulders, where it had scrunched with his continual leaning that morning, and strode across the room, pushing the door open and leading the way into the hall, not bothering to wait for Martin.

OoOoOoO

Other-Martin arrived before breakfast was even consumed, entering using his own keys without even bothering to knock. Martin looked mildly surprised, and looked to Douglas of all people for answers, the hand that brought the coffee mug to his mouth hanging in mid-air.

Douglas in turn looked to Deborah, and her only response was to shrug and tell him that,

“He’s here a lot; I got bored of opening the door.”

Arthur had been strangely quiet when Douglas and Martin had joined them in the kitchen; when they had asked, he had smiled and told them that he had had a moment when he had realised how far away from home he was. It was still brilliant, he had assured them, but strange anyway.

While Douglas and Martin had watched, glancing uncomfortably at each other, Arthur had also observed unusually pensive, as Deborah crossed the room to greet Other-Martin, moving close as if to embrace him. Other-Martin had raised his arms as if to sweep her into a hug, and her hands had swept upwards to rest on his chest, but apparently they had both frozen at the newness of the intimacy, and looked down awkwardly, his hands gliding over her waist briefly before he retracted them, and her right hand patting his chest companionably before she stepped back and smiled, speaking in a hushed tone.

“I think I believe you now.” Martin whispered across the marble island; Arthur glanced curiously at the Captain, but waited for Douglas to provide an answer. That alone made him more eager than before to hurry up and find a way home; if Arthur of all people was getting weary of their situation, then it was high time it be over soon.

“It’s horrific, isn’t it?” Douglas muttered in response, and was pleased to hear Martin snort into his coffee.

“Are they…?” Arthur pointed between the two doppelgangers, who still deep in conversation, apart, and with serious expression on both of their faces.

Douglas smirked at the bewildered cringe on Arthur’s face; he was under no illusion that Arthur was completely innocent, but he seemed to be having as much trouble getting his head around the idea as _he_ had.

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Oh…that’s brilliant!”

Maybe he wasn’t having trouble then, Douglas reconsidered; typical.

After a few more moments of covert whispering, Other-Martin and Deborah joined them around the faux marble island, separating to stand either side, Deborah beside Martin, Other-Martin between Douglas and Arthur. It was only then that Douglas noticed he was wearing his overlarge casual jacket over his uniform; he supposed that that would help prevent any confusion, although, the way that Other-Martin’s eyes glazed over when he looked at Deborah was differentiation enough.

“I’ve come up with a plan for getting you to and from the air-field without causing any trouble.” Other-Martin declared proudly; Douglas thought that he sounded as if he had been given the leading role in an action movie, by a director who knew nothing of action.

“And it’s surprisingly _not_ awful.” Deborah intoned, smiling thinly at the glare that Other-Martin sent her way.

Her eyes traced the cleared plates on the island, and she reached in front of Arthur and Martin (who leant back, placing a comfortable distance between them), taking the plates and floating over to the sink while Other-Martin leant forward on his elbows and began explaining his idea with an excited light in his eyes. If Douglas didn’t know any better, he would have said the man was enjoying breaking the rules; he did know better however, and knew that that was probably party true.

Douglas decided to pander to his joy, and leant forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his clasped hands; he caught out of the corner of his eye, Martin mirroring the pose on the other side of the island.

“I’ve managed to get Carolyn out of the way for the rest of the day,” Other-Martin explained, glancing over Arthur’s head for the encouraging nod that Deborah shot him; a small, preoccupied smile emerged on his lips, even as he looked back to Douglas and Martin, “Herc’s still in Fitton, so Arthur – _our_ Arthur is going to ask him to teach him how to properly maintain his car. He’ll do it because he’s a nice person-” Douglas glanced up as Deborah snorted disdainfully from across the room, but Other-Martin continued, “and Carolyn will stay there so that she can keep an eye on them –well, Arthur said it was so that Herc can’t brainwash him with his ‘hippy’ ideas.”

“I see he’s just as annoying over here then?” Douglas inquired as Deborah reappeared at Martin’s side, arms folded over her chest and face held in a picture of tempered disgruntlement.

“More, I guarantee it.” She retorted, rolling her eyes as she huffed.

Martin exhaled exasperatedly, inclining one eyebrow as he met Douglas’ eyes, and scolded lightly, “ _Douglas…”_

In the same moment Other-Martin scolded fondly, _“Deborah…”_ , and leant across the island to nudge her arm lightly, retracting his hand before the action could even draw too much attention.

An elusive stillness overtook the conversation, and it suddenly became difficult to meet anyone’s eye. Then Other-Martin cleared his throat, and the moment was gone.

“I called Arthur this morning, and it’s all set.” He continued, less excited now, and more down to business, as Douglas would have expected, “Around two o’clock he’s going to pretend to borrow Carolyn’s car to pop down the shops, but he’s actually going to meet us at the airfield…where hopefully we’ll be sending you on your way.”

“Do you think that’ll work?” Martin asked, looking unsurely between Other-Martin and Deborah, biting his bottom lip, “I mean…can your Arthur r _eally_ keep up a lie for that long?”

Douglas had to agree with Martin’s sentiment, even as Arthur let out a small _‘hey’_ ; the idea that their whole scheme hinged on Other-Arthur’s ability to deceive did not sound even a little bit sensible.

“I’ve been training him in my ways.” Deborah stated without any further explanation, her eyes widened knowledgeably as she nodded and Other-Martin motioned towards her in confirmation of her point.

“He’ll be fine.” Other-Martin added confidently. Douglas wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway; it wasn’t as if they had any other options. That, and he wanted to go home so badly; just thinking about it made his chest throb almost painfully. His one saving grace was the fact that Martin and Arthur were with him, and that Fitton was identical regardless of universe; that certainly helped to belay the mind-melding nature of their little adventure.

Douglas looked to Martin, who was shifting nervously, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, his cheeks pale and unflushed. Arthur too was quiet, but he actually looked hopeful and curious, light brown eyes wide and wandering. Which meant that Douglas needed to jump in before he started asking unanswerable questions.

“Shall we go then?” Douglas suggested quickly, clocking Martin’s grateful smile. Deborah nodded swiftly, rolling her shoulders back as she slid upright, striding around the island to where she had thrown a coat over the back of a chair.

“That is an excellent idea.” Deborah drawled, addressing the entire group, “The three of you can take my car like last night, and I’ll catch a ride in Martin’s van.”

At this she met Other-Martin’s eye as she floated past him, smirking lasciviously as she passed far too close; his arm lifted unconsciously to brush up her arm as this was happening, and his stare held enough heat that Douglas wouldn’t have approached for fear of catching alight.

“ _Actually_ ,” Douglas interrupted; all eyes landed on him, but he was accustomed enough to being the centre of attention not to waver, “I thought that _you_ could take these two in your car, and _I_ could go with your Martin in his van.”

Behind him, Martin made some disagreeable noises, but Douglas ignored these in favour of meeting Deborah and Other-Martin’s off guard gazes. The two of them exchanged a look, and then Deborah shrugged nonchalantly.

“I don’t see why not.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Other-Martin’s van was just as uncomfortable a rise as Martin’s was; it shuddered and juddered along the road, something in the back rattling incessantly, and its one redeeming feature was the fact that in terms of driving equipment, Icarus’ controls were at least twice as efficient as GERTI’s. Which wasn’t saying much.

The first half of the journey to the air-field had not gone as smoothly as Douglas had intended; conversation did not flow nearly as easily with Other-Martin as it did with his own, and Douglas was only barely managing to hold onto whatever shred of tact he had left.

“So are you in love with Deborah?” Douglas inquired as he turned to the right to observe the ginger man in the driver’s seat; he winced inwardly at the way Other-Martin’s face flushed scarlet, and his eyes widened in embarrassment as the van actually swerved in the road.

  
“I-I, I…uh, I _suppose_ …” Other-Martin stuttered, frantically trying to retain an air of controlled calm and failing terrifically as his eyes flickered between the road and his passenger.

“You _suppose_?” Douglas pushed; he knew that he was being obnoxious, and that Other-Martin wouldn’t handle well under the pressure, but he still needed to straighten a few things out in his own head, “I’m sure it’s that kind of steadfast romance that made her fall for you?”

“Fine! Fine, yes! Yes I do, I love her, are you happy now?” Other-Martin gritted out, his words clipped and frustrated. He took in a few deep breaths, his chest heaving with the effort it took not to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, as the twitching in his left hand proved he was dying to do, “Why is this so important to you?”

“I’m just checking after the girl, that’s all.” Douglas lied, glancing at the other man, “It’s not important…I was just ensuring your integrity; for example, what is it you _love_? Would you, for instance, not feel the same way if she looked entirely different?”

Other-Martin took an extra second examining Douglas before snapping his eyes back onto the road, running them over his face with a suspicious glint in his eyes. Then his features softened with realisation, and Douglas felt the first stirrings of misgivings.

“Oh, I _see_.” Other-Martin said, bringing back memories of that morning, “I like to think that even if Deborah wasn’t frankly _stunning_ , that I’d still feel as strongly…even if I wasn’t attracted to her, I still can’t imagine living without her- she brightens up my day, even when she is being a pest.”

“And do you think _my_ Martin would say the same thing?” Douglas continued, trying to make it sound as if it were a small matter.

Other-Martin shrugged, but he had adopted that smug grin that Douglas so often wanted to simultaneously photograph and wipe off of his Captain’s face.

“Well, if you’re actually just like Deborah, which I think you are, then I’m sure he’s just as attached to you as I am to her…perhaps in a different way.” He suggested, and then shot a mischievous glance at Douglas before looking away, “Why? Are you entertaining ideas of you and him?”

Douglas had to rerun the last line through his head, the surprise having knocked him off balance; Deborah was right, Martin, both Martins, were little shits…and he didn’t mind it actually…it was fun.

“No, of course not!” Douglas insisted, “I mean, sure I experimented a bit when I was younger, but that wasn’t my area,” Douglas stuck his nose up at the bemused expression on Other-Martin’s face, “I’m _not_ attracted to Martin, and even if I _was_ , I wouldn’t do anything about it!”

Other-Martin chuckled, his smile warm and welcoming, more genuine than any he had seen from the man since they had arrived.

“Look Douglas, I’m not gay, so I seriously doubt that _your_ me is…” Other-Martin assured him, his smile dimming but not fading as Douglas slumped in his seat, “…but…if you and he are as close platonically as Deborah and I are…I think he might give it a try if you offered and meant it.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Douglas retorted in disbelief.

“Honestly?” Other-Martin started, “No, it doesn’t, and I’ll tell you why. Deborah is the best thing that’s happened to me since I passed my CPL, even when she’s being a right cow –she may have been married a couple of times, but they didn’t last, and I’m pretty sure she’s the _one_ for me.” He ignored the way that Douglas rolled his eyes and stared, disconcerted, “If anyone else can feel that kind connection to someone else, then I’m all for it.”

Douglas shook his head and folded his arms tightly across his chest, holding them there like a life raft.

“Well I’m _not_ going to ask Martin out because I _don’t_ feel that way, and I _don’t_ want to.” He said stubbornly, pushing the idea as far back in his mind as it was possible to go, cursing Other-Martin for even mentioning such a thing, “Even if I did, I wouldn’t…I’m old…and Martin wants a wife and kids, neither of which I can provide.”

“How do you know he wants that?” Other-Martin replied, peering at Douglas curiously. Douglas shrugged dismissively.

“Ages ago he was interrogating this poor actor, asking if he had a wife and two children _‘a boy and a girl – I thought so’”_ Douglas imitated Martin’s creepy stalker voice, and looked up to see that Other-Martin was giving him a strange look.

“Douglas…how did he react when you told him about me and Deborah?” Other-Martin asked slowly.

“Mostly fine, he didn’t quite believe it at first, but I don’t think it bothers him too much.” Douglas replied, unsure of where the other man was going. The bridge of his nose had crinkled and his eyebrows had drawn together.

“Then I’m sure, if you two gave it a go, that those things wouldn’t bother him.” Other-Martin said finally, with an air of finality.

“But I’m not going to ‘give it a go’!” Douglas snapped, biting his tongue to prevent anything else from slipping out that might insult the other man.

Other-Martin’s smile had dipped long before into a frown, and he looked plainly at Douglas, the pity evident in his eyes.

“Then I suggest that you stay together, and that you make sure you’re the best ‘best man’ and possibly godfather that there’s ever been – because he _will_ choose you.” He answered, directing his sights back on the road.

Something heavy and unpleasant settled in Douglas’ stomach at that, and he for once had no retort; he merely sighed and slumped further into his seat, and paid extra attention to the rocking of the van.

Other-Martin’s voice, cautious and tentative broke the quiet.

“Do you think…do you think Deborah would want those things with me?” he asked, glancing momentarily at Douglas; Douglas for his part sat up a little straighter, staring at the man with something akin to bewildered wonderment, “You know…the marriage and kids thing – I mean, I know it’s early, but – we _could-_ ”

Other-Martin continued to ramble, but Douglas phased him out for a moment, a moment long enough for him to truly realise the depths of the connection he had been poking and prying at. Deborah and Other-Martin may have been emotional mirrors of he and Martin, but they weren’t _them_ ; while he had been fussing over himself, he had failed to see exactly _how_ devoted the two of them were to each other. And that wasn’t because they were distorted reflections – it was because they were real people, who had lived real years together, and were on the precipice of something real and potentially beautiful. Douglas damned the romantic sod in him; so he and Martin still had a lot to work out – right now he wanted nothing more than for Other-Martin and Deborah to live happily ever after, preferably in a castle somewhere, with enchanted furniture to bring them brunch of a mid-morning.

“and just think of it – a little girl with red hair and those gorgeous brown eyes batting away-”

“Martin, she will spend the rest of her life with you so long as you treat her properly.” Douglas cut Other-Martin off.

Other-Martin turned, an expression of pure surprise and joy lighting up his cheeks.

“Really? You don’t think she’ll remember that I’m the same ‘arse’ that Carolyn forced her to work with four years ago?” he asked, barely able to contain his thrill.

Douglas couldn’t help but smile at the excitement on the other man’s face; it was incredible really, how someone so much like him could bring such pleasure to another person.

“Martin, I think she’ll remember, and she’ll send Carolyn gift baskets to thank her for making the best decision of her life.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

When they entered GERTI for the first time following the strange landing, which had been suspiciously smooth considering that no one had been conscious, Douglas had been expecting the smoked odour to still cling to the air, and the walls of the flight-deck to be blackened and charred. This was not the case. To his surprise, which he hid under a low whistle as Martin repeated the word ‘ _what?’_ in his high pitched throaty tone, and Arthur let out an amazed ‘ _wow’_ , the air smelt clinical, clean, cold, and from the cabin it was obvious from the way that the light filtered in through the front window that the flight-deck had brightened somewhat in their absence.

Other-Martin and Deborah had escorted them onto the airfield, and then informed them that before they could help them, they would have to sort out the paperwork for the day, and make sure that people like Karl or Dirk wouldn’t see the extra plane strewn across the grass and decide to take a peek.

Douglas had been only too pleased; as happy as he was for the man, there was only so much romanticised Other-Martin that he could take before it began to unsettle his stomach again. He had watched, ignoring Martin’s strange and perplexed gaze, as Deborah and Other-Martin had wandered towards their porta-cabin; they hadn’t been touching, or wrapped in each other’s arms, but there had been an intimate closeness between the two that had made an almost imperceptible flutter of cheer hover in his chest.

Now, as Martin strode purposefully towards the flight-deck, Douglas hung back, steadying himself with a hand over the back of one of their ratty old seats. GERTI was familiar, she was safe…but the machine that had brought them to this universe was still in the flight-deck…waiting. At first this universe, with Deborah and Other-Martin and Other-Arthur, had seemed strange and alien, but here…it felt like a transition point, a limbo, neither here nor there.

It may not be home, but at least he knew where he stood with their doppelgangers.

Douglas hadn’t noticed drifting off, but with a shiver, he became suddenly aware of where he was, as if the walls of the cabin had jolted into focus. It was then that he also realised that while Martin had disappeared into the flight-deck, Arthur was still standing beside him, his brown eyes scanning his face with a faint perplexed air.

“Are you alright Douglas?” Arthur asked, his tone warmed with concern; normally Douglas would have batted it away with a snarky comment, but for once he was relieved by the absolute familiarity that Arthur provided.

Douglas smiled wanly, prompting a similarly cautious smile from the steward.

“I’m fine Arthur…just anticipating our next grand adventure.” He remarked, adopting a jolly tone that he wasn’t sure shone as well as he’d have liked. Arthur nodded dutifully and smiled brightly, but it drooped ever so slightly as he brought a hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Yeah…maybe after this, we wait a bit before our next adventure.” Arthur suggested.

A surge of warmth filled Douglas’ chest, and for a moment it felt as if nothing as truly that bad after all.

“Arthur, that’s the best thing you’ve said in months.” Douglas announced, and for good measure he gave Arthur a hearty pat on the back, swinging his arm around him and pulling him close for a fraction of a second.

“Really?” Arthur asked quickly, then as he was released, “Brilliant!”

“Yes, it is rather, isn’t it?” Douglas replied cheerfully; he knew that he might regret his show of affection later, but for now, Douglas was content to watch the joy blossom on the steward’s face, lighting him up to his usual wattage; he glanced towards the still open door to the flight-deck, behind which, he could just see Martin flitting about with his hands on his hips, “Shall we join our gallant Captain before he gets the manuals out?”

“I don’t think the manuals cover space machines.” Arthur stated helpfully; Douglas heard the rustle of him following behind as he himself made his way down the aisle and didn’t even try to stifle his low groan, and rolled his eyes drearily.

oOoOoOoOoOo

It took all of half an hour for the three of them to decide that they really had no idea what they were doing. The flight-deck had indeed seemed to fix itself overnight, the charred walls flattening out and the jump-seat re-stitching itself.

When Douglas had entered the flight-deck, it was to find Martin contorting as best he could around every corner, into every foothold, to inspect the damage – or lack of it. He had blushed lightly when he saw Douglas, but Douglas had merely clapped him on the back and directed him towards the newly browned crate that rested ominously on the jump-seat.

Arthur had flinched slightly, unnoticeably to all but Douglas as he neared, but Douglas decided that it would be less uncomfortable not to mention it, and instead, to bluster onwards with confidence.

As he peered into the box, at the still flashing, but thankfully quiet machine, Douglas chewed on his bottom lip, drawing it through his teeth, as he struggled to really see the device. Without any further ado, he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the wooden crate and tried unsuccessfully to pry one side away from the others. All that he achieved was a dull ache in his upper arms.

A warm presence pushing into the space beside his left arm made Douglas turn and step back, as Martin placed his hands on the edge of the crate, his face scrunched in determination, his tongue peeking from the side of his lips.

“I’ve got it – van man’s arm, remember?” Martin explained matter-of-factly, sounding neither pleased nor depressed about that fact, merely accepting of his lot in life; Douglas realised that it had been a while since Martin had truly complained about his job.

“I never thought I’d say it Captain, but your _rippling_ muscles might just be making themselves _useful_.” Douglas drawled as the front of the crate came away from the body with a crack, splintering at the edge.

Martin threw him a look over his shoulder, his smile incredulous, and his eyes unreadable, but glinting nonetheless, as he began to pull the rest of the crate apart with relative ease, dropping the panels onto the floor where they clattered resentfully.

“My muscles make themselves plenty useful,” Martin remarked playfully, and Douglas finally recognised the cheek in his gaze, “You just – uh…ehem.” He coughed awkwardly, and Douglas found himself wishing that Martin had finished whatever devilish sentence he had started.

It was unsettling, but good, fun; there was no time to reset the balance though, as Martin stepped back, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows as he levelled with Douglas, and the two of them took a moment to inspect the haunting device from a distance, Arthur looking curiously from the other side.

The device was round, the gradient sides a stainless steel type material; in the centre at the very top, nestled in among a ring of different coloured lights, one flashing red intermittently, the other a pale violet, sat a matt screen with a rotating black ring on it, much like the symbol that would appear on Verity’s games machines when they were loading.

“Douglas, do you know how to work it?” Martin asked hopefully; Douglas turned his head, eyebrow quirked, to stare at the Captain with barely masked incredulity, and Martin’s eyes flickered away as he ran a hand doggedly through his ginger hair.

“I fear you put too much faith in me Captain.” Douglas said dryly, smirking at the way that Martin rolled his eyes as if _he_ were the one making outlandish requests, “Inter-dimensional travel is a bit beyond my reach.”

This elicited a chuckle from the Captain, and Douglas forgot for half a second what trouble they were in if they couldn’t figure out how to make the machine take them home.

“If only the client had come with us.” Martin muttered, stepping forward to poke at the side of the device before stepping back just as quickly when nothing happened.

Douglas cursed, folding his arms over his chest with the sway of his body; with everything else that had been going on, he had completely forgotten about the client. Damn – Douglas wasn’t usually a violent man, but if they ever saw him again, he might just take a swing at him, just to release some of his pent up frustrations. And if he didn’t, there was always a chance that Martin might…that might actually be funnier.

“Chaps?” Douglas looked up as Arthur raised his hand ever so slightly when he addressed the two of them; it was a small movement, unconscious, but it was enough for Douglas not to dismiss him straight off.

“Yes Arthur?” Douglas replied politely; Martin gave him ‘a look’ from his side, but Douglas ignored him, as Arthur really did look as if he knew what he was talking about. He often looked what he was talking about, but Douglas mused that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“It’s just … when it exploded before, I saw what it was doing.” Arthur explained; he walked closer to the device and tapped the red light, “This bit here wasn’t flashing – it was sort of glowing all the way around, and the screen – that had letters on it.”

On a better day, Douglas might have been surprised by the legitimacy of Arthur’s assistance, but instead there was only a rush of relief. Relief that evaporated when Martin shrugged out an arm and prodded the screen of the device before Douglas could reach out to stop him.

“This bit?” Martin verified as he prodded; Arthur nodded tight-lipped as Douglas tried to slap Martin’s hand away, earning a stern and irritable stare from the Captain.

Their hands remained connected over the device, and Martin’s eyes darted to the metal machine in realisation, wincing in response to the expected fallout of his actions. Douglas too tensed, squeezing his eyes closed, but after a few seconds of nothing, no whirring, no bangs, he opened them again to see that nothing had happened.

Douglas let out a deep sigh, as Martin exhaled and released a nervous giggle, meeting Douglas’ gaze with frayed nerves.

“Honestly Douglas,” Martin teased, his voice fragile and as high and throaty as it went, the colour reappearing in his cheeks, making the freckles less stark, “You really do fuss too much.”

“Oh, be quiet.” Douglas scolded him, his heart not really in it, far too busy slowing itself down as he flicked a hand at his Captain’s chest and stepped backwards out of his space, even as Martin giggled a bit more before trailing off with a snort.

“Look chaps, the numbers are back.” Arthur seemed oblivious to the contained panic that both of the pilots has experienced; he was leaning over the device in the jump-seat, hands in pockets, nose scrunched as he read the screen at its peak.

Douglas wandered to his side as Martin mirrored the action on the other side of the flight-deck and leaned over the device; just as Arthur had said, there were now numbers, and in fact letters, on the small screen.

“It’s touch screen.” Arthur noted with a certain edge of thrill, as if the ability to use the device via touch was as brilliant as when the doctor’s surgery had installed the touch-screen check-in computers.

Martin was mumbling under his breath as he examined the screen upside down, and Douglas couldn’t help but feel slightly redundant; true, they could not use the machine, but they had no idea how. He for one, had no desire to hop through any more strange worlds, and wanted nothing more than to get GERTI in the air and go home. Douglas had never thought that he would miss Carolyn’s voice, but having her so far away seemed to be a trigger.

In the top right hand corner of the screen sat a small curled arrow, and in the centre, in large block capitals, was typed :  **UT-6D-2/3V-4.8**

Well that wasn’t even slightly useful.

Douglas looked up over the device and met the equally befuddled gaze of Martin, who must have read the confusion in Douglas’ expression, as he shrugged, and then inclined his head slightly towards Arthur. Douglas sighed and nodded, pleased to see that Martin straightened out and turned to the steward.

“ _These_ numbers Arthur?” he inquired, pointing to the device’s screen. His shoulders were sagging, Douglas noticed, and he immediately despised any idea of failure that Martin was feeling. He was always the one that fixed things; Douglas had no clue _how_ but for once he decided not to look on his own luck with pessimism, but to inwardly pray to whatever deities resided in this universe that his luck was as biasedly dealt as always.

“No…the letters are the same, but the numbers are different.” Arthur replied slowly, as if dragging his memories of the previous day to the light; Douglas supposed that he could be forgiven, as he _had_ done quite well for someone with a mild head injury.

“They’re just numbers though,” Douglas groaned, careful not to jostle the device too much as he stepped away to try and pace in the enclosed space before remembering that pacing was really Martin’s thing; the stress was starting addle his brain, and that was the last thing he needed, he thought as he nearly collided with the arm that Martin had extended to make him pause, “Are you sure there isn’t just a reverse button on there – if I were building such a volatile machine, I’d make sure to install one _just_ for a little added security. Random letters and numbers are no use whatsoever.”

Martin brought his arm to Douglas’ side, his hand hovering an inch away from his upper arm before his face set and he placed his palm solidly against Douglas’ shoulder. He gave only a quick squeeze before he retracted it, but it was enough to catch Douglas’ attention, and make him inhale deeply, letting the air fill his lungs before he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched.

“If it helps,” Martin offered, “I don’t think they’re just random numbers.”

“What?” Douglas snapped wearily; he snuck another glance at the device before meeting Martin’s uncertain yet confident face, lit up ever so slightly.

“Just- just hear me out.” Martin said hastily, striding away from Douglas’ side, taking the warmth with him, and instead bending over the device while presenting his idea, “The letters stayed the same, Arthur said, but the numbers changed – so maybe it’s a code, or coordinates, or…I don’t know, but they wouldn’t be there if they were at least a little bit important.”

Douglas nodded slowly, thinking it through. That sounded about right; he cursed himself inwardly for not thinking of it. This, he thought, is what happens when you stay up to ridiculous times in the morning and get only an hour or two’s sleep.

“Well, if that’s the case Martin, I’m afraid you’ll have to take command.” Douglas conceded, smirking at the momentary flicker of indignant pride that crossed his Captain’s face.

Douglas knew that he was superior in luck, piloting, word games…most things really, but it had been a surprise when one day, about a year ago, when he had discovered just how good Martin was at mathematics. Word games, Douglas could swan through, but anything involving numbers, and he fell behind, having to add up on his fingers partly out of ease, mostly out of an inability to hold onto anything that wasn’t based in language or spatial ability. Martin however was practically a genius when it came to numbers; not only had he memorised the entire bloody manual, but Douglas had caught him counting the cards in everything from their impromptu poker games to Uno.

“I’m already in command.” Martin insisted dryly, pinning Douglas with a fiery but not quite assertive glare, “and though it’s lovely to know how much faith you have in my maths abilities, I don’t think I can break any codes.”

Douglas shrugged, smirking at the way Martin rolled his eyes and huffed at the lack of response.

“ _Fine,_ I’ll take a look at it, if you insist.” Douglas sighed in as put-upon a manner as he could manage; once again, his mood shifted like a weight on a pair of rickety scales, unsettled as he was. It was the damned machine, setting his teeth on edge.

“Right, well, you should do that-“Martin instructed, assuming his authoritative tone, and pointing at the machine. Douglas allowed himself a minute to bask in the ridiculous image that wasn’t quite as ridiculous as it had been a few years before; Martin’s uniform may have been rumpled after a day’s usage, and pulling across his torso as he refused to let it come un-tucked, but he now wore it with his shoulders set and his finger pointing stiffly at the device.

Douglas placed his hands either side of the device, ran his fingers over the red light, wondering what exactly it meant…it had remained on while they were gone, so maybe it was still linked to their previous-

Two pairs of feet clumped along the cabin, and Douglas looked up just in time to see Deborah saunter into the flight-deck, followed almost immediately by Other-Martin; Martin shuffled closer to Douglas so that it would be less of a tight squeeze (not that it helped), ending up a solid mass nearly tucked against Douglas’ side as Arthur follow suit.

“How’re you getting on?” Other-Martin asked hastily, glancing at each of the group in turn; Douglas watched as his hand followed the path of Deborah’s lower back, as if hovering just out of the way in case he needed to yank her back from where she was leaning unabashedly over the device, inspecting the digits on the screen with her eyebrows pulled together.

“Douglas is working out how to use the machine.” Arthur explained cheerfully, “He’ll know how to us home soon.”

Douglas preened under the praise, looking up to see that Deborah was smirking at him from across the device; despite his best efforts, something about her complete insight into what Arthur’s praise did for him created a subtle spark of inadequacy. It wasn’t new by any means, but Arthur’s faith was indestructible, and Douglas was all too aware that he was in a prime position to disappoint.

“I wouldn’t like to boast, but I am making some headway.” Douglas informed the group; he straightened out his bent posture, his back clicking as he did, and smiled wanly, bringing his hands together, “I think, but don’t quote me on this, I think that these numbers are our location – or, if we were on the move, our destination.”

“Like a sat-nav?” Other-Martin remarked, sounding thoroughly unconvinced, his eyebrows edging towards his hairline.

“More like an autopilot,” Deborah interjected, treading back to stand at an angle to Other-Martin while continuing to hold Douglas’ gaze as she directed her next words at him, “Is where I assume you were taking that?”

“Yes, something like that.” Douglas responded wanly, managing only a brief quirk of his lips, “Only problem is, I don’t know what the coordinates are for home, or how to put them in the machine.”

“Maybe just tap it.” Martin suggested, and once again, before Douglas had time to stop him, Martin had reached past, the polyester sleeve of his uniform scratching against the skin of Douglas’ left hand, and tapped his forefinger against the lettered code.

The group watched with bated breath, Martin his hand hanging above the device, Other-Martin leaning in to see so much that he was practically resting on Deborah’s shoulder, the screen lit up, splashing a paler light across each of their faces. Over the code, skewed to the right of the screen, there appeared a small but clearly identifiable touch keyboard. Douglas had to refrain from scoffing in disbelief when he saw that it was even arranged in the same way that the keyboards in the porta-cabin were arranged.

Whoever their client was, this was _his_ work, and not the work of some alien who had misplaced their toy. And Douglas wasn’t sure what to think about that.

“Wow…” Arthur breathed, and suddenly it became apparent how far from ‘wow’ the last few seconds had actually been. Douglas cleared his throat, and Deborah brushed her fingers through the loose strands of hair that fell over her face.

“Well _that_ was anti-climactic.” She drawled, before a funny light came into her eyes, and she reached over to tap the screen herself.

Douglas watched with muted fascination as the keyboard disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived; well, that solved one problem, and left another wide open. However, what he had told Arthur, a long time ago, stuck in an airport in St Petersburg was true; no one had a higher opinion of himself than he did, and Douglas was just lucky enough to be wedged into a tight flight-deck with a soul just like his.

Martin and the Other-Martin were bickering amongst themselves while Arthur looked on, bewildered but interested in what was being said.

“But there could be _hundreds_ , no _thousands_ , of different combinations of numbers, all of which could send us to any number of different places!” Martin was stressing, extending his hands to emphasise his point, “We want to go _home_ , not somewhere worse than this.”

“I’m not saying you just try random places!” Other-Martin insisted, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Your home was the last place this machine went, the coordinates should be, if any common sense went into this device, somewhere on the machine’s database-”

“We don’t know if it _has_ a database!” Martin argued; his face was turning a charming shade of red, and Douglas knew that he should be interrupting, but it was far too entertaining watching the Captain argue, well, with _himself_ , for him to make the effort.

“Just go back through it!” Other-Martin said loudly, his voice taking on the reedy tone that Martin’s always did when he became frustrated.

At that it was as if a bolt of lightning had sparked into life in Douglas’ head, bringing the metal walls of the flight-deck, and the tense forms of the five of them within it into sharp focus for just a second; while the Martin’s continued to bicker, mirror images of the same man, arms jostling their colleagues as Arthur stood, arms crossed between them, one image plastered itself across the inside of Douglas’ mind.

The swift lifting of Deborah’s head, making her hair flop from her face as she met Douglas’ gaze with wide eyes told him that she had been struck by the same realisation. Douglas embraced the swell of pride that he felt for the woman; it was easier than feeling ashamed of himself for not thinking of it earlier.

“I think that Martin may be onto something when he says we should just go ‘back’.” Deborah announced, her smirk ruined as it curled into more of an unwilling victorious smile.

Other-Martin halted his litany immediately, physically rotating his body as best he could to face Deborah, analysing her face with a trusting confusion shining in his eyes. Martin fell silent only seconds afterwards, looking to Deborah, but glancing with a more lingering stare at Douglas, lips pursed as if to make an inquiry as to their epiphany.

That alone was enough to persuade Douglas that _he_ should be the one to continue; Deborah raised an eyebrow knowingly, but didn’t comment when he did.

“Hmm…I think you’ll find that the most obvious action is often the best – to take Mr Occam completely out of context and twist his words,” Douglas drawled, letting the words roll from his tongue and over his lips in the familiar rush that came with taking control of the situation; it took only one more look at the expectant expression on Martin’s face to prompt him further, “To find the coordinates for _our_ universe, it stands to reason that we could simply,” at this Douglas reached towards the device’s screen, and with the very tip of his index finger, tapped the little black arrow in the right hand corner, “click return.”

“ _Oh…”_ Martin’s exclamation came out on a breath, and he unconsciously raised his finger to his lips, curling the others on that hand into the palm.

Douglas didn’t waste time watching his Captain, and instead peered at the new display on the device’s dull screen. To the right hand side, there now appeared a panel, describing various options and protocols, but they were of little interest. A surge, an entire wave of relief, unlike any he had felt for years, flooded Douglas’ senses as he read the words in the centre of the screen – **‘previous coordinates – select?** ’.

“Chaps, we can go home.” Douglas announced proudly. He noticed how Other-Martin grinned unabashedly, stepping back until he was right against the flight-deck door to allow more space, and how Deborah’s fingers seemed to tighten around her upper arms as her smile only just met her eyes.

But those were irrelevant details when Arthur’s face lit up, his brown eyes filling with joy, and Martin flushed red with a release of pent-up angst, laughing stiltedly with relief and leaning into Douglas’ side as he raised a hand to his eyes, covering them as he shook his head with relief. Douglas allowed Martin to do so, swinging an arm around his waist and allowing himself to indulge in a moment of mutual comfort with his friend. They could go home.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The skies over Fitton were cloudless and clear, allowing the sun to tickle playfully over the air-field, floating down from the West in the lazy mid-afternoon fashion. It was just enough to keep Douglas’ mood clipped up high where the fluffy weightless masses usually grazed.

It was strange, having to say goodbye to people that you should never have met, and no surprise, Douglas was struggling to lay out for himself just what he was actually feeling about it.

Inside GERTI, the machine sat, prepped and ready to be activated, humming away to itself. Outside, GERTI, standing close together with their backs to the plane, Douglas, Martin and Arthur faced Deborah, Other-Martin, and Other-Arthur, who had appeared an hour beforehand, beaming with the victory of a scheme well executed.

Whereas Martin looked awkward and grateful to be leaving, his face pale and set in a smiling grimace, fingers twisting doggedly at his Captain’s hat as he held it ahead of him like a bumper, Arthur’s grin had settled into a sad smile, that was mirrored by his doppelganger, and Other-Martin was trying to prevent the self-consciousness from leaking into his expression as his fingers tapped rhythmically at his upper arms where they were folded like a protective barrier against the onslaught of unwelcome emotions.

Though no one but himself would have noticed it (save for Other-Martin, perhaps), Douglas thought that Deborah looked sad – pleased for them, lips witching, but sad, as she clasped her hands together and let them hang by her waist. He imagined that he looked much the same; it was wrong, and a true salute to his addictive personality, but now that they could leave, Douglas almost wanted weeks more just to find out how similar their lives really were.

They had been talking, before, but they had lapsed into silence, unsure of what could possibly be said in such an impossible situation. So Douglas did what he did best, and took the lead, experiencing a rush of thrilling competitiveness when he saw a light enter Deborah’s eyes that said the same thought had occurred to her.

“Well, we’d better be off then.” He announced, not quite managing a drawl, but smirking nonetheless, “Carolyn will be wondering what we’ve done with her son and her plane.”

Douglas felt Martin nudge him playfully (though more likely a light scold), his arm colliding gently with his own, as Arthur hummed in agreement on his other side.

Deborah chuckled pleasantly as Other-Martin nodded quickly, whether agreeing with the sentiment, or hurrying them along Douglas wasn’t sure, but the hint of a smile was promising.

“The door’s always open.” She remarked cheekily; her smile grew into a grin as Other-Martin scolded her, ‘ _Deborah…’_ , even as his eyes zeroed in on her face and took on a glint that Douglas still wasn’t ready to think too hard about, even if he _was_ glad for them.

“If you _do_ get lost again, you should definitely come here.” Other-Arthur offered, eagerly, as if he hadn’t quite grasped why everyone else had made such a fuss over the past day’s events; he had his hands deep inside the pockets of his over-large coat as he swayed ever so slightly.

“And if our client ever comes to you, make sure he uses the address for our Fitton.” Arthur replied, just as sincerely, and then adopting his face of infinite wisdom, which Douglas rolled his eyes at, added, “But tell him to put the instructions on the lid, so that you aren’t all worrying when you get there.”

“Oh, believe me,” Other-Martin interjected before either Arthur could continue; he glanced wistfully at Martin and Douglas before continuing, a stressed but accepting softening of his features smoothing his forehead even as his eyebrows moved animatedly, “As…fun and…insightful as this has been, we won’t be repeating it.”

“Absolutely not.” Martin concurred, gesturing in the air with one hand as his eyebrows danced with the fringe of his ginger hair, “There’s only so much madness I can take, and I get enough of it from these two.” He curled the fingers of his hand to the palm and pointed his thumb roughly in Douglas’ direction.

“Oi.” Douglas retorted; this was nice, he thought as he glanced at Martin, Martin was joking, he could hear the fondness in his voice, the jovial ripple; Douglas sighed and turned back to the group as a whole, extending his arms for emphasis, “But really…this is goodbye.”

Deborah nodded, and before Douglas had time to properly register the action, she had taken advantage of his open arms and stepped forward swiftly, drifting into his embrace and flinging her arms around his neck. The extra weight he had to support sent him leaning backwards for a moment before he righted himself, and Deborah didn’t release him until Douglas had brought his hands to her back and squeezed sharply in return.

“The trick,” she muttered as she pulled away, meeting his eyes as she shifted from his arms, “is to let go of the act, and just let things happen in here,” she pointed at her own head, “it’ll be fine – really, it will.”

With that, she slipped from his grasp completely, and Douglas barely acknowledged Other-Arthur as he pulled him into a suffocating hug; he _knew_ what she had meant, just like he _knew_ that even though he barely noticed sometimes, his own deceptions had taken root in his own head. Which made it very difficult to keep hold of the prize at the end of ‘the trick’, as the very thought was like vapour in the air.

Douglas focused in on the real world just as Martin was awkwardly trying to fight reject Deborah’s embrace, and failing miserably, and Other-Martin appeared in front of him, looking nervous, but chewing on his bottom lip with determination.

Thankfully, he didn’t attempt to hug Douglas, he wouldn’t have known how to react if the other man had (he wasn’t _his_ Martin after all), but he did raise his right hand to pat companionably at his shoulder.

“Chin up Captain, you’re getting your life back.” Douglas teased; this, at least, was not difficult, “and you’ve earned a pretty girl in the interlude.”

Other-Martin chuckled, his hand retreating to rub at the back of his neck as his blue eyes darted to the ground before leaping back up to meet Douglas’; he meant business then, Douglas realised.

“Yeah…just – just think about what I said earlier.” Other-Martin instructed kindly, glancing ,in what he probably thought was a subtle way, at Martin.

“I will…think about it.” Douglas replied; this seemed enough for the other man, as he smiled genuinely, his lips parting to reveal his teeth, and then returned to the side of Deborah, who was waiting patiently, observing the two, one arm slipping up to curl around her waist.

Douglas didn’t know what else he _could_ have said; it was in his head now, all this talk of him and Martin…and it was stirring up things that he didn’t want stirring. What was worrying, was that there was anything in the mixing bowl to stir.

“Are you all set?” Deborah inquired; she leaned into Other-Martin’s touch, and Douglas knew that that was the signal; that was the moment that told them it was time to leave, to allow them, both sets of them to return to life as normal, and live out normal lives without worrying about inter-dimensional paradoxes.

“We’re more set than we’ve ever been.” Douglas replied; he dug his hands into his pockets and turned to Martin, losing sight of the doppelgangers and the eerily familiar woman, and focusing instead on his familiar freckled cheekbones and pale blue eyes, tilted attentively, “Lead the way, Captain?”

Martin smiled thinly, but it was comfort enough to know that he wasn’t panicking, and was calm and controlled; if Martin was calm, that there was nothing to worry about in at least a five mile radius. Douglas watched as Martin delivered a tight-lipped, stiff wave to the doubles, and led the way into GERTI’s cabin without a word, only a respectful nod in their direction.

Douglas motioned for Arthur to go next, and was nearly too worn out to roll his eyes as Arthur paused and waved enthusiastically back at the group; nearly.

“Goodbye – have nice lives.” He called, waiting for the responding ‘ _you too’_ before he grinned and ducked into the cabin.

Douglas followed him, swinging one foot in front of the other; just as his hand curled around the edge of the metal frame, he looked back. Deborah and Other-Martin were stood together, her arms around her chest, one hand overlapping the one of his that rested just above her waist. Other-Arthur wasn’t too far from them, hands in pockets, smiling a little sadly, ducking his head just a fraction to hear whatever Deborah was muttering.

It hadn’t been so bad…not really.

With one last lingering look, committing the image to memory, Douglas ducked into the cabin, and pulled the door shut with a click behind him.

oOoOoOoOoOo

It was nice to be in his chair again; true, it was ratty and uncomfortable, but in that moment, Douglas wouldn’t have traded it for the world. He remained mostly silent while he and Martin turned on GERTI, setting her up as if ready to fly; they both did. I they talked too much, they might begin to reconsider what they had planned to do.

The machine would snatch them from the ground, of that much Douglas had been certain, but there was no knowing whether it would spit them out in the air. Which meant that they had to be prepared to execute emergency manoeuvres the moment that they appeared in their own universe.

Douglas had briefly entertained thoughts of staying where they were – they were nice people after all – these had been shaken firmly away. He had absolute confidence in his and Martin’s ability to pull it off. And if they didn’t…well, it’s not like they would be suffering for long.

Arthur bumbled over, leaning across the back of the First Officer’s seat, jolting Douglas from his reverie.

“Are we going then?” he asked; Douglas didn’t know whether to be grateful or frustrated by the lack of true concern in his tone.

“Not yet Arthur,” Martin answered, turning in his seat to face the steward; Douglas felt a peak of curiosity, as having watched the Captain, he knew that GERTI was more than ready to go, “Could you go through the Cabin and the Galley and make sure that everything that’s loose in locked in a cupboard, or somewhere where it won’t fly about.”

“Oh, the last time _was_ a bit rough.” Arthur agreed, “On it, Skip.”

With that he made his way around the jump-seat and into the Galley, the door to the flight-deck slipping shut behind him. Douglas became painfully aware of the nervous way that Martin flexed his fingers over the controls that he had grasped in a mock of a coping technique, and how he looked straight ahead as he took a deep steadying breath.

He had always noticed these things, but given recent events, Douglas felt almost hyper-aware of every move that Martin made in the confined space.

And then Martin started talking.

“Douglas, I _know_ you’re going to tease me, and say that this is just silly, but there is a real possibility that we might not make it through this, so you need to let me speak-” the words tumbled from Martin’s mouth like a fountain, but he had that determined glint in his eye as he swivelled his whole body to look at Douglas, so Douglas simply nodded, eyebrows pinched, and motioned for him to go on, “I don’t want you to die, in fact, it would probably be the worst thing I can think of right now  - because you’re my best friend, and I care – I mean, I’m very fond of you, and it would be horrible to not have you around…so, I just wanted you to know, that – uh, that you mean a lot to me…that’s all.”

Douglas, for once, didn’t know what to say; tease probably- he should tease, or drawl something, but it just didn’t feel like the right thing. It didn’t feel like it would properly answer Martin’s spluttered confession either. He inhaled deeply, dropping his eyes momentarily from Martin’s to focus on the sensation of his chair against his back. Douglas recalled what Deborah had said, about dropping the act, and decided to pay very close attention to the prickling feeling in his chest.

He knew that he had been silent for far too long, but…he needed to think. It was…good…good that Martin cared; no one in their right mind would turn their nose up at that. But it cut a little too close to…to the emotion that Douglas had been folding away in his chest since he had first been addled by the very idea of…

There was only one thing he could really say, that would be alright. Douglas became even more sure of this at the pang that he felt when he saw Martin’s expression droop, his shoulders sag as he began to shift back around in disappointment.

“The feeling is…mutual.” Douglas spoke slowly; he tried to remain a blank picture, but the way that Martin’s face lit up with self-assurance made a smirk creep onto his lips regardless.

“Good.” Martin said, as if testing the sound in case Douglas took it back; Douglas had just about relaxed again when Martin turned his body again suddenly, making his uniform pull with the motion, and addressed him with a serious crinkle to his expression, “What were Deborah and the other me saying to you?”

“Why?” Douglas retorted immediately; not nearly as smooth as he would have liked, but Martin seemed too focused on thinking and talking to pay much attention.

“It’s just, the way that Deborah was talking in the car earlier, it was like she thought she and the other me were _soulmates_ or something…and that she thought – well- uh, she thought that, we, ummm, we should be…too.” Martin began confidently, but he trailed off towards the end, looking at Douglas with the muted acceptance that came with an obvious slip up that he hoped he could brush under the carpet, “I just wondered if…if they were saying similar things to you.”

Douglas considered laughing it off, but then he remembered what Deborah had said; drop the act, and listen to his head (whatever that really meant, he was going to interpret it as he pleased) – so he decided to plunge straight in.

“The other you suggested that if I were to ask you to engage in a romantic relationship with you, that you would be perfectly up for it.” He explained; Martin’s face flushed red, but it was surprise that filled his eyes, not disgust; Douglas retained enough of his common sense to continue quickly, “This is based on the idea that we share a friendship similar to theirs.”

“Well, we are close friends – and I did just make that embarrassing declaration.” Martin joked abashedly; Douglas smiled. Martin had a fantastic ability to make him smile, no matter how uncomfortable he was inside.

“True, but there’s a difference between them going on a date and _us_ going on a date.” Douglas insisted; why not give it the benefit of the doubt, for cheerful conversation if nothing else, “They’re completely in love with each other – fond as I am Martin, I’m not there yet.”

“Neither am I!” Martin assured him, placing a steadying hand on Douglas’ arm for a fraction of a second before retracting it; Douglas observed as his expression became more pensive, and his fingers clenched ever so slightly, “But…that’s really what a date is for, isn’t it? It’s not for romance, it’s for the bit before, where you work out if you can do the romance and love thing…like when you waggle the wheels on a car before driving off…”

There, Douglas froze again; the sensation in his chest, in the back of his mind, was screaming and churning again, and he wasn’t sure whether it was painful…or pleasurable. What was more shocking, was what Martin seemed to be suggesting…and that he wasn’t reacting as he should to such a suggestion.

“Martin…” Douglas asked slowly, cautiously; Martin met his gaze hopefully, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, “Are you suggesting that we go on a date?”

“No – well, yes…there wouldn’t be any harm in it.” Martin explained; he ran a hand through his hair and Douglas was torn between watching its path and keeping a lock with the blue eyes that were flitting tentatively about the flight-deck, “If there’s nothing there, then we’ve had a nice meal, no different from any night we spend at a hotel…if there is something, then…well, then there’s something…”

“But what about all the other things that come after that?” Douglas exclaimed; he wasn’t rejecting the idea. He knew that he should be, but he really didn’t want to stop himself from finding out what Martin had to say, “What about…” he gestured between the two of them.

Martin’s eyebrow quirked momentarily, then his eyes widened as he realised what Douglas meant. His cheeks reached a new level of scarlet, but he swallowed and spoke confidently.

“If there really was a connection between us, a real one…then…I haven’t been with a man at all…but if I really _felt_ it, then I don’t think it would bother me.” He explained, and Douglas was once again at a loss as what to say; the feeling in his chest was making itself very vocal, and he didn’t know what it wanted, even as Martin asked, “Do you…I mean, do you not…?” he gestured to himself, and Douglas leapt upon the prompt.

“I’ve tried men before, that’s not a problem,” he assured the Captain, who nodded in understanding, “and you?” he took a moment to pause and look, properly look, at Martin, up and down; he had never thought to himself ‘ oh, yes, he looks good’ – because it was _Martin_ , but now that he thought about it, he did spend a lot of time looking at him, “You are…you’re not bad.”

“Oh, thanks.” Martin scoffed, hiding a chuckle behind his hand.

“I’m sorry, you know what I mean.” Douglas batted his hand through the air, and then refocused on Martin, his expression serious enough that the Captain paid attention as he took his turn to gesture to his own less than adequate physique, “Do you really…? I mean, _really?_ ”

Martin sighed, and Douglas followed the motion with his eyes as Martin slumped sideways in his chair, dropping his eyes to trace the controls in the arms of the chair.

“I suppose…it’s not just that though,” he glanced upwards to see how Douglas had reacted, and seeing only an unusual degree of attention, continued, “It’s just…you know in movies, when the actors stage themselves so that when the characters are in love, they sort of gravitate around each other in the space, like a magnet?” Douglas nodded, “Well it’s like that…sometimes, we’re together…and it’s like a magnet, and I just want to…”

“To kiss me?” Douglas suggested, unsure of why he allowed himself to say it, or why he suddenly felt so afraid of Martin’s answer. It was only words after all.

“I don’t know!” Martin growled, frustrated with himself, hand darting back to his hair, “Maybe kiss you, maybe – just something, I just want to do something.”

Douglas nodded, but offered no reply. Martin must have read it in his face, as he turned back to the window and slumped in his seat, accepting the end of the conversation.

Except the conversation was still living and breathing and whirring and sparking inside Douglas’ head. The fear in his chest, the warmth and the churning that had been present for a while, awakened by the strange universe, suddenly burst. He had been afraid of what Martin’s answer would do to the feeling, but it wasn’t bad. It was in fact very, very, good. Terrifying, but so, so good. Douglas clenched his fingers over the edges of the chair’s arms.

He was Douglas Richardson; he was calm and collected, cool as a cucumber.

“Martin…do you think it’s time to call Arthur back?” he asked nonchalantly, peering sideways at the Captain.

Martin glanced at Douglas, a muted acceptance scrawled across his features and the slump of his shoulders.

“Yes, yes it probably is.” Martin conceded, and he leant forward to call Arthur back to the flight-deck using the intercom. Martin closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to his lids as he sighed; the pink had yet to leave his cheeks.

“Oh, and Martin?” Douglas asked inquisitively; he smirked when Martin opened his eyes and looked over at him with a raised eyebrow and a ‘ _what_ ’ face, “If the offer’s still open, a date would be lovely.”

Douglas didn’t think he had ever seen Martin’s face light up so quickly, and he was sure that his had done the same, but there wasn’t long to contemplate such matters, as Arthur burst into the flight-deck, oblivious to anything that had happened in his absence.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Douglas inhaled deeply, steadying himself as best he could without alerting Martin or Arthur to the tumult that was taking place half-way between his gut and his head; he gripped the controls underneath his palms, focusing all of his energies on the clacking of his knuckles as he tensed his fingers.

On the one hand, Douglas was now experiencing a peculiar thrill at the realisation that Martin – _Martin_ \- had asked him on a date – _a date_ – and that he had accepted – _accepted­._ It was not something that he had ever considered, but there was something…exciting about it. He genuinely liked Martin, he really did…but the fact that if their efforts went according to the traditional purpose of a date, they could end up being… _intimate_ …that was strange…but not terrible.

On the other hand, there was a high chance that the machine resting ominously in the jump-seat could kill them instantly, or spit them into their own universe and make it impossible for them to safely land without dying in the process.

So Douglas and Martin had prepared GERTI for take-off; the damage that the previous journey had caused had not completely healed, but it was enough that there was a chance, a slim chance, that the two of them could regain control should anything go wrong. Douglas had never been nervous before a flight, save for the first time he had been allowed to take off on his own, but that did nothing to hinder the tendrils of dreadful anticipation that snaked up his arteries.

Martin, it seemed, was feeling much the same; Douglas observed him from the corner of his eye, watching the Captain as he sat ramrod straight in his chair, sucking in slow and measured breaths that made his chest expand in tandem, and curling his fingers around the raised controls on the panel. His face was set, pale cheeks making the freckles stand out, and save for the moments when he snuck furtive glances as Douglas (which Douglas studiously pretended to ignore), he wavered between tense determination and misgiving.

He wanted to offer some form of mutual comfort, but nothing came to mind, so Douglas sighed and peered over his shoulder. In the rear end of the flight-deck, which was still somewhat shrouded on shadows, which laced together just over the humming and flashing metal device, Arthur was shuffling about, rubbing his hands together and doing his best to remain cheerful in the face of adversity. He had been encouraged, so it seemed, by the combined achievement that was figuring out more or less how to get home, and had fallen into a quiet trust of his pilots to keep things together so long as he didn’t try to be too helpful. He had attempted it, of course, but Douglas was anything but shy with sharp instructions when they were required.

Douglas cleared his throat; Martin turned his head ever so slightly to pay attention to the proceedings, but it was Arthur that Douglas was focused on. The steward’s eyes lit up as he was addressed, and he stood to attention immediately.

“Arthur, do you remember the plan?” Douglas asked sternly, making sure to impress upon him with the expression on his face how vital it was that he do exactly as he was told.

Arthur nodded swiftly, pursing his lips decidedly before he replied.

“Yes Douglas.” He answered, sounding inordinately proud of himself considering that no action had yet been performed, “I press the button to turn on the space machine, and then I run as fast as I can into the cabin and strap myself down.”

“Good lad!” Douglas praised him, smirking at the warm smile that encapsulated the steward’s face; he looked directly at Martin then, furrowing his brow and waiting for confirmation that he was ready; Martin met Douglas’ gaze, and after swallowing to such an extent that Douglas could see his throat bob, the Captain nodded, his eyes severe, “Now Arthur, on the count of three…one…two… _three_!”

The moment that words left Douglas’ lips, Arthur’s hand shot out and thrust into the side of the device; Douglas watched, tense and ready to leap into action, as Arthur retracted his hand as if afraid a scorpion might snatch it. He stumbled away from the jump-seat, and then with a clumsy gracefulness that only he could achieve, Arthur sprinted towards the galley, catching the door to the flight-deck as he passed and causing it to slam shut.

It was for the best, Douglas mused, at least if something did go wrong, there would be a few inches of protection between the danger and Arthur.

As he turned back to the front of the flight-deck, settling stiffly in his seat, the machine’s rhythmic hum began to grow and roll into a thrumming whirr, whining like a car engine fighting a stall, or a one man jet engine screeching in a too low manoeuvre.

Douglas turned to look at Martin, to properly survey the expression on his face; it had long been a method of his to gauge his own confidence based on Martin’s. If Martin was panicking, depending upon which type of panic he was experiencing, the Douglas could choose the appropriate mood to match; now, the Captain was visibly anxious, but he was keeping it together, so although it was an unsteady measure, Douglas felt a genuine flood of relief and certainty. He was Douglas Richardson, and he was always at least four marks more in control than Martin; those were the rules.

As if sensing eyes on him, Martin’s shoulders sagged and he turned his head, meeting Douglas’ gaze once again; this made the jitters even more visible, and Douglas’ heart went out to him, even if he wasn’t sure how to comfort the man. Thankfully, Martin did as he always did, and filled the silence, even as the whirring increased behind them.

“Are you alright?” Martin asked; his voice wavered, but he was making an admirable effort at remaining cool. It was only years together that allowed Douglas to pick out the fractures in his cracked composure.

He wasn’t alright, but he damn well wasn’t going to tell him that.

“You’ve asked me that a lot in the past day.” Douglas remarked dryly; this was easy, this was how they worked, “Are _you_ alright?”

To Douglas’ relief, Martin let out a spluttered chuckle, which sounded more like a gasp, stumbling, as if he had been holding in his nerves for longer than medically advisable.

“No – you know what, no I’m not.” Martin replied, a strained smile twisting his lips; this strange mixture of complete bemusement and nerves was hardly a new feature, and Douglas, despite his misgivings about the ascending whine behind them, “God knows this could go _so_ wrong.”

“Maybe…but we’ll be fine.” Douglas assured him, pulling out his most charming smile, and feeling as if he only managed half of his highest standard.

Martin nodded, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, and turning to stare out of the window. Nobody would have thought that he was fine. Before he could mentally talk himself out of it, which he was certain he was capable of, Douglas slid his hand across the gap between their seats, and grasped Martin’s hand in his.

Martin’s eyes flickered up to his, his face bleached with surprise as Douglas gave his hand a comforting squeeze, curling his fingers around the Captain’s for a brief moment before pulling them away, returning to their own position. For a moment, Douglas couldn’t meet Martin’s gaze, couldn’t stir up the courage, and stared instead at the way that Martin’s fingers twitched and flexed as if trying to recreate the sensation. The moment passed, and Douglas met Martin’s blue eyes with his usual nonchalant suavity.

“We’re going to be fine, Martin.” He repeated, and this time the clouds in Martin’s eyes lifted just a fraction, and he nodded resolutely.

They didn’t say anything else as they looked away from each other; there wasn’t anything to say, and there wasn’t time, as the whirring reached a screaming crescendo. Like before, the readings began to ripple, the altimeters and the artificial horizon shifted erratically despite them being on the ground. Douglas gripped the arms on his seat, his nails digging into the cheap plastic, and he saw Martin do the same. There was a sudden flash, searing enough that Douglas slammed his eyes shut, wincing from the heat it produced. Without further warning, the undetectable sensation of gravity keeping them down flipped on its head, and Douglas forced himself not to cry out as GERTI lurched forward, and he was thrown into a free-fall, losing all extraneous details, save for the incessant hope that Martin and Arthur were alright.

OoOoOoO

Douglas was thrust back into awareness; it was as if the world had ended, for a fraction of a second, and in the next second he was trying to wake from a dream where no matter how fast he ran, he could neither outrun nor be caught by the dragging presence in his wake.

First was the noise, the piercing, ringing in his ears that was swiftly fading and replaced by frantic beeping. Then came the flashing lights, the groggily focusing façade of the control panel, the clumsy, disorientated movement to his left that was very probably the Captain.

Finally, Douglas became aware of the view from the window, and was hit with a sense of miserable foreboding, increased by the dreary performance of his senses, as he saw that they were in the sky. He could see the lower edges of clouds, white, frothy, climbing up the glass as the plane tipped downwards towards the ground.

Which is when his pilot’s instinct kicked in; GERTI was operational – they were high enough that they could save her.

Martin was breathing heavily, hands moving hastily over the controls as he addressed Douglas without turning to look at him.

“ _Douglas_! Are you awake – conscious – can you fly?” Martin demanded, spitting the words out; Douglas had enough peripheral attention left to note that he was slamming down the same cool and collected air that he had adopted the last time they had been on the verge of disaster, over St Petersburg, using it to mask the complete panic that he was otherwise experiencing.

“Yes, Captain, and I recommend using _all_ of the emergency procedure.” Douglas replied quickly, moving to try and correct their downward path before the thought had properly passed through his mind.

“Agreed.” Martin gulped as he mirrored Douglas’ actions, “ _You_ have control.”

Douglas nodded, jaw clenched. There wasn’t time to argue, or question, or even tease.

The next few minutes passed in a blur, a combination of lasting disorientation and single-minded action. It was so easy to choke down whatever anxieties and musings that had been haunting him over the last two days, and Douglas found himself focused on the one singular desire _not_ to collide painfully with the ground.

And then it was over…the coils around his chest disappeared and it was suddenly possible to breathe again as the horizon levelled out. They weren’t at cruising altitude, or anywhere near the clouds, but they were flying without the risk of dying, so that was something.

Beside him, Douglas heard Martin release a wavering, almost hysterical breath, and when he looked, the Captain had dropped his head against the back of his seat, closing his eyes and pressing one hand over his mouth.

“Did we do it? Did we actually do it?” Martin asked raggedly, sliding his hand away from his face and opening his eyes to meet Douglas’ gaze, a tired and hopeful glint in them.

Douglas nodded, slowly, and then he felt his face split into a grin, which Martin met watt for watt; he hadn’t experienced true homesickness since he had first to become a medical student, but if this was what it felt like when it was over, like a symphonic orchestra playing its first notes after the lifting of a gagging order, then maybe it was worth feeling it just a little more often.

And for once he couldn’t find a single reason to tease or mock Martin, or even a negative thought; it was simply the best thing in the world to share the moment of relief, and if he stared a fraction too long at Martin’s face, then he could blame it on the sublime expression of complete liberation that the Captain exuded.

Martin’s forehead crinkled, and his eyebrows met in the middle as a thought occurred.

“Where _are_ we?” he inquired, peering out of the window. There were no markers that might shed some light on the question, but Douglas thought back to the rush to prevent an untimely end.

“I think we’re over Dover…they definitely _looked_ like White Cliffs.” Douglas answered; he sighed. The weight of events were beginning to realign themselves on his shoulders.

There was a low cough as Martin cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So…we’re alive…” Martin remarked, feigning nonchalance, though Douglas could see him tapping a faint tune on the controls.

“Yes…” Douglas replied; he then realised what Martin was hinting at, and didn’t refrain from rolling his eyes before continuing, “and going on a date, it seems.”

“Yeah-” Martin interjected; he refused to make eye-contact, “I’m – I’m still up for that, you know, unless-”

“So am I.” Douglas said quickly, cutting Martin off before he could talk himself into a corner; the Captain’s face split into relief, and he sagged, running a hand through his ginger hair, “But…perhaps we should give it a few days before we _do_ , and allow ourselves some time to sleep off the peculiarities that we’ve viewed.”

“Absolutely.” Martin agreed, and Douglas thought that in that moment, Martin would have agreed to anything; and if that wasn’t endearing, then Douglas didn’t know what was.

Before they had time to communicate further, Arthur burst through the flight-deck door, booming about how ‘ _that was brilliant chaps!’_ , just as the sat-com began to blare.

Douglas swivelled in his seat to usher Arthur towards them (he scooted around the jump-seat, which was now eerily silent), as Martin’s hand shot out to answer the sat-com.

“ _Hello! Douglas, Martin, are you there?”_ Carolyn’s voice, tense and worried sounded from the control panel, and as Arthur’s face lit up, Douglas felt the final edge of uncertainty blunt, as it was confirmed that they were home.

“Yes, yes Carolyn, we’re here.” Martin answered, his tone light and laced with joviality as he beamed at both of his colleagues in turn.

“And doing beautifully I might add.” Douglas chimed in, unable to fight off the smile that pulled at his lips.

“ _Mum_ , you don’t have to worry anymore!” Arthur called, managing to sound more relieved than the pilots, which Douglas thought was quite a feat, “We’re back – and we missed you!”

There was a pause, in which nobody spoke, and then Carolyn’s harsh trill returned with a vengeance.

“ _Where the HELL have you been?”_ she demanded, and Martin winced slightly at the sound, **“** _You’ve been out of radio contact for 3 HOURS! For all I knew you could have drowned in the Atlantic!”_

“Three hours?” Martin whispered, but Douglas batted a hand in his direction, shutting him up.

“Carolyn, as lovely as it is to know that you care, we’re fine, and we’re _very_ sorry.” Douglas emphasised each word, hoping that the message would make its way down to Earth, “The…package…that our client wanted moving was _interfering_ with GERTI; it seems we’ve been flying in circles and are still over Dover.”

 **“** _Dover?”_ Carolyn’s tone drifted between righteous indignation and badly masked acceptance on the basis that they weren’t dead, “ _Well, come back then – if it’s endangering the aircraft, the client can have his crate back.”_

“Ok, will do.” Martin replied hastily; as he was about to switch off the sat-com, Carolyn continued.

“ _One last thing…Arthur, what has been going on? And don’t try to lie to me, I_ will _know.”_ She inquired suspiciously.

Arthur’s eye widened, put on the spot as he was, and he looked to Douglas for support; Douglas just shrugged. Arthur couldn’t lie properly, so there was really no point in trying; he just hoped that the steward would catch onto their lack of accurate details, and go along with their ploy of omission.

“It’s like Douglas said…the machine messed up GERTI…nothing else at all happened, not at all.” Arthur answered tentatively; Douglas sighed, meeting Martin’s gaze across the flight-deck as a similar sigh sounded from the sat-com.

 _“Whatever you say dear, just bring my plane back.”_ Carolyn said, and Douglas actually felt a pang of guilt at the exhaustion in her tone; it may have only been three hours for her (god only knew how that worked), but if he knew her as well as he thought he did, she had spent every moment that she couldn’t reach them on the verge of an anxious explosion.

Martin switched the sat-com off, and once again, nobody spoke.

“Back to Fitton?” Martin suggested, clearing his throat and adopting an unconcerned façade. Douglas nodded, settling back in his seat, allowing himself to believe for a moment that they had been on a normal flight, and were returning after a normal day of word games and mockery.

“Back to Fitton.”

oOoOoOo

The landing was as smooth as they could have hoped, considering that they were all still somewhat rattled. Douglas was certain that if they didn’t vacate the plane immediately, Carolyn would come and find them, so the moment that Martin finished the post-landing checks that he had insisted upon, Douglas raised his hand to catch the attention of the other men.

“Right, when we see Carolyn, not a word about what happened – understand?” Douglas instructed, making sure to impress upon them the seriousness of his request.

“Yes – I just won’t say _anything_.” Arthur replied, nodding obediently; he didn’t look certain, but he had given his word, and that was all that Douglas could hope for.

“I’d rather not spend the rest of my life in a mental hospital, so no, I won’t be saying anything.” Martin assured them, shrugging his uniform more comfortably onto his shoulders as he stood, shuffling around his seat, “Besides, once the client finds out his ‘package’ didn’t arrive in Philadelphia, _he’ll_ be the one answering difficult questions, and _I_  might have a few choice words to say to him.”

Douglas allowed himself to chuckle lowly and then groan as he heaved himself onto his feet. Martin gave him a concerned glance, but Douglas waved him away.

“Go and intercept Carolyn, the both of you.” He instructed, nodding towards the galley. Arthur agreed and wandered swiftly from the room, obviously eager to see his mother again, not that Douglas could blame him. Martin lingered for a moment.

“Martin, I’m fine, just give me a minute, and I’ll follow you out.” Douglas insisted; Martin didn’t look convinced, but he smiled nonetheless and respected Douglas’ request, exiting the flight-deck without another word.

The moment that he was gone, Douglas dropped his pretence of solidity; he exhaled raggedly, allowing himself a few seconds to mentally reel, to relish being home. Three hours. Three hours, and they couldn’t even talk about it – he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it.

There was no sense in clinging to things that were gone though, so Douglas collected himself, and began striding towards the galley. He eyed the machine, still and silent now, though the lights still flashed, and couldn’t help the ripple of disgust he felt at the sight of it. In one last act of defiance, Douglas extended his hand, and tapped roughly at the metal exterior.

That was a mistake, as a sensation reminiscent of being shocked after sliding from bed, more like being struck by lightning, shot up his arm, and Douglas felt reality flash out from around him.

OoOoOoOoO

OoOoO

O

Douglas could see, he could hear, but he couldn’t feel. It was as if he wasn’t there at all. He realised numbly, that he wasn’t. It was as if he was watching from a distance events in a different life.

It was his flat, except he knew that it couldn’t be, as the inhabitants of the green sofa proved. The lights were dimmed, and it was obviously late at night. Lying on the sofa, propped up on one of the arms, was Martin Crieff, in casual wear – old jeans and a worn shirt, much like he would adorn for a van job. Sitting between his legs, her back against his chest, was Deborah Richardson, her hair loose around her shoulders, her head tucked into the crevice between his neck and his chin.

Martin had one arm wrapped around her waist, hugging her gently to him, and her fingers intertwined with the fingers of that hand. In the other hand, Martin held a book, which he was reading with a furrow between his eyebrows, while his cheek rested against the top of Deborah’s head, and she tapped thoughtfully at her phone.

“Martin?” Deborah asked nonchalantly, never taking her eyes off of her phone.

“Hmmm?” Martin hummed in response, closing his book and tucking it into the space beside him so that he could peer down at the woman in his arms. Deborah glanced upwards, shifting so that she could face him eye to eye; she wore a mask of feigned unconcern, though it was obvious to a practiced observer that she was _extremely_ concerned.

“Have you thought much about the… _other_ ones that came here?” she inquired, picking at the buttons of Martin’s shirt so that she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze, which was framed by a curious frown, “It’s just that I’ve been wondering lately if they reached home.”

Martin sighed and his hand curled around hers, squeezing encouragingly.

“That was two months ago – I’m sure they’re fine, and even if they’re not – which I’m sure they _are_ , there’s nothing we can do, so worrying won’t achieve anything.” Martin assured her, badly; Deborah rolled her eyes, but chose not to comment.

“I realise that…it’s just that as far as events go, it was a rather big one, and yet it was over so quickly that it sometimes feels as if it didn’t happen at all.” Deborah explained, still refusing to meet his gaze; in terms of honesty, she was doing well, but it would be a long time before she felt properly comfortable behaving as such.

“Well, it _did_ happen, because we wouldn’t be _like this_ if it hadn’t.” Martin remarked, letting out an awkward chuckle. Deborah’s expression turned cloudy, and she pursed her lips as she replied.

“Oh, would you not have taken me to dinner if they hadn’t arrived?” she inquired, her tone adopting the teasing drawl with which it was so familiar.

“Of course I would have!” Martin insisted, in the throaty voice that came with defensiveness, “It would have just taken me a bit longer…I _was_ edging towards it, I just-”

“If you’d edged any slower, we’d have been in nursing homes before anything happened.” Deborah drawled; she settled further into Martin’s embrace nonetheless, shifting more onto her side.

“No I wouldn’t!” Martin retorted, mirroring the movement to finally look her in the eye, a petulant glint in his eyes.

Deborah chuckled, a smirk curling her lips, as her fingers continued to play with his buttons.

“Yes you would – you said it yourself, you _edge_.” She insisted, visibly battling a wider smile from overtaking her cheeks.

Martin’s expression took on the challenging shade that came with one-upping her, and shifted so that his spare arm boxed Deborah in on the sofa, and brought them closer together.

“I’m not edging _now_ , am I?” he stated, as if he were making a point. Deborah laughed again, unable to formulate a response as Martin snuggled closer, other things on his mind, and her hand came up to glide up his arm.

Then Douglas was hit by a wave of deafness, and then blindness, and the scene vaporised, and he was surrounded once again by the cold harshness of the ground.

O

OoOoO

OoOoOoOoO

With a strange sense of Deja-Vu, Douglas awoke to the sensation of the flight-deck floor digging into his back, and warm hands on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure what he had just seen, whether it had even been real, but Douglas had no idea how to process it. It was insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it was unsettling…and nice to know that their other halves were okay, he supposed.

Douglas’ eyes snapped open, and he was met with the anxious face of Martin, ginger and freckled, inspecting him for injuries.

“Martin – Martin, I’m okay, just help me up.” Douglas groaned, acknowledging the relief that flooded Martin’s features. In truth, his arm was aching; it was as if a million prickles of electricity were still dancing in his nerves, and occasionally flittering to the rest of his body, but Martin didn’t need to know that.

Martin’s strong hand gripped his own, and Douglas’ head momentarily blurred as the blood rushed to and from his skull, and the flight-deck righted itself around him.

“Douglas, what happened? You were fine when I left you.” Martin asked, taking a moment to brush the lint from Douglas’ uniform, which Douglas studiously ignored.

“I just felt a little dizzy.” Douglas brushed him off; the flitter of guilt in his chest at the droop in Martin’s face made him smile faintly to negate the upset, “Never mind about me, we should go and see Carolyn.”

“Yes, of course.” Martin agreed, sounding unsure of himself.

It was with a little more bustling, and Martin fussing over the still dented areas of GERTI’s interior, that they finally made it out of the cabin and into the almost fresh air of Fitton airfield. As the murky sunlight hit his skin, Douglas mused, he had never been so glad to inhale stagnant aviation fumes.

oOoOoOo

The regroup went as well as could have been expected. Carolyn, who had been deep in conversation with Arthur, her hands reaching out every now and then to touch his arms, broke off the moment her eyes fell on her pilots. Douglas liked to think that a thankful expression had taken over her face at seeing them alive and well, but this was swiftly replaced by a stern, yet somehow forced, fury as she bore down on them.

“If you do anything like that again there won’t be a job for you to come back to!” she snapped, pointing her finger accusingly between Douglas and Martin, who exchanged a glance and tried to suffocate the beginnings of covert smiles, “I had to send the CAA officials away when Karl told me they couldn’t’ reach you – honestly, the trouble you two caused by dropping off the map-”

Douglas drowned out the rest of the tirade; he couldn’t even be too angry in retaliation, it was just nice to so shamelessly criticised. It had never occurred to him that he might miss it.

“Was it _your_ doing Douglas?” Carolyn demanded; Douglas looked up in surprise, catching Martin’s eye as the Captain prepared to jump in as his defence. Douglas shook his head; that would have been too suspicious. That didn’t prevent the bemused chuckle that bubbled up in his chest.

“For once Carolyn I had nothing to do with it.” Douglas assured her, though she didn’t look convinced, “I recommend you wait until the mysterious client arrives to find out why we never delivered his package – I’m sure he’ll have a charming story up his sleeve.”

The afternoon carried on in much the same way. Carolyn rushed about, inspecting GERTI for damage with Arthur at her heels, visibly dying to tell her everything by resisting with all of his power, while Douglas was sentenced to the Porta-Cabin with Martin, and forced to endure hours rifling through the paperwork that needed amending after their failed trip.

And at the end of the day, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Douglas found himself squeezing past Martin’s van to get to his Lexus. He looked over the top of the car, meeting Martin’s weary smile with pursed lips.

“Is this is then?” Martin asked, rubbing a hand over his face, “Do we just act like nothing happened?”

Douglas thought for a moment, rolling the idea over in his head; it wasn’t as if they had much of a choice. Then again…

“Well, if we act like _nothing_ happened, then that sort of puts a spanner in our plans for later in the week.” Douglas pointed out; he felt a rush of pride when Martin flushed ever so slightly, dipping his head so that his cheeks were less on display.

“I suppose it would…so…later in the week then?” Martin replied; for all of his efforts, his expression still verged on imploring. Douglas couldn’t find it in himself to tease.

“Of course Captain- a promise is a promise after all.” Douglas assured him; it was so much easier to act like he was the confident one in this situation.

Then, they said goodbye, promised to see each other tomorrow, though there was no point, as they had to come into work regardless of promises, and once Martin had disappeared into his van, Douglas found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, gripping the steering wheel and lowering his head onto it.

One deep breath, then another. It was over. He could go home. That was good…Douglas just couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had taken a huge turn, and dragged him along in its wake. But that could be dealt with in the morning.

Collecting himself, Douglas put the car into gear and pulled away from the car park, ignoring the residual tingling that still snaked up his arm, and leaving the entire mess behind (but keeping the good parts tucked away in his mind).


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S

Douglas shrugged off his robe and flopped onto his bed, reaching blindly for the covers so that he could pull them somewhat over his chest. It had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep and escape into a mindless vacuum.

This is easier said than done, because as well as thoughts of the evening’s events dancing carelessly about his head, Douglas was still feeling the twitchy sensation that the shock from the machine, an entire _week_ ago; it waxed and waned, but it was still there, persistent as a flea.

A week; sometimes he still had trouble believing that their dip into the other universe had happened, it felt so distant. But it had, and there was nothing to do but move on. Douglas still felt a flurry of sadistic pleasure at the sound of the mysterious client being screamed at by Carolyn from within her office. The only downside was that they never discovered who he was, or why he had such technology in his possession.

After an hour of yelling, a group of man and women in black suits and sunglasses had arrived in vans, and even when faced with Martin’s ‘ _I am the Captain_ ’ act, they had taken the device, and the client, and disappeared. As they were leaving, one of them had lowered his glasses long enough to peer suspiciously at Douglas, then at the quavering Martin, but content that neither of them knew anything, had left them to move on with their lives.

So they had. Carolyn knew nothing, so they had spent the week on stand-by, waiting for another client who had booked but not arrived.

Which brought Douglas to tonight. Considering the nature of the evening, Douglas thought that it had gone rather well. In short, he had ventured into the strange world that was attempting to go on a date with Martin Crieff.

He had met Martin at Parkside Terrace an hour after they had left the air-field, and was not surprised to find the Captain in his smartest casual wear. Douglas had, he wouldn’t lie, been slightly nervous (this wasn’t really his area of expertise, and if this went wrong, then he would still have to see the Captain the next day), but that was swiftly replaced by despairing fondness as Martin fussed at his own coat and cleared his throat awkwardly more times than was probably necessary.

It had been agreed that they would stop at one of the cheap restaurants that they often used after late night flights, so that they could transition between friends and potentially attempting romance…and Douglas was comfortable with that. It was _Martin_ after all; he had been to dinner with Martin hundreds of times. Still, there were misgivings, but they were quickly pushed aside.

“This is a bit weird, isn’t it?” Martin remarked sheepishly as they took their seats in the corner, shirking their coats over the back of their chairs; he was making a great efforts at meeting Douglas’ gaze, but every now and then his eyes would drop away.

“Just a bit.” Douglas agreed, smirking at the pale flush on Martin’s cheeks, “I’d be worried if it wasn’t.”

Martin had chuckled, and the two of them had ordered food without any problems, and began talking about the day’s workload (or in Douglas’ case, the fact that the workload had remained peculiarly identical in the morning and the afternoon). Then it became quiet again; not quite uncomfortable, as they had known each other long enough to sit in silence for hours if they needed to, but the underlying feeling that there was a purpose to the meal made it difficult to stay that way.

There were usual topics that Douglas could have drawn on, old hat in terms of dates, but he and Martin already knew the answers to any small talk that he could think of. So he had offered a question about Martin’s childhood, in a drawling, teasing tone, to let him know that he was having a go at playing the romantic for the sake of the date. Martin had laughed and rolled his eyes, and managed somehow to turn the question onto Douglas, who had revealed surprisingly little about his life outside of work, it turned out.

Douglas found that he was enjoying swapping stories with Martin; it was nice watching him snort and seem genuinely interested in the escapades of his younger years. As their meals came and passed, they managed to sustain conversation, and as Martin shifted in his seat, his grin matching Douglas’, Douglas felt his foot collide clumsily with his shin.

Martin retracted his legs immediately, apologising tensely and looking down at the pattern on the table. Douglas knew that it had been an accident, but he couldn’t help himself.

“You know Martin, it _is_ a date.” He drawled, smirking at the stubborn expression that leapt onto Martin’s face, “It would be entirely on theme if you wanted to try that.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Martin muttered good-naturedly, shrugging more comfortably; Douglas thought that that was the end of it, taking a sip of his apple juice still smirking with victory, until he felt Martin’s foot meet his once again, more gently this time, until it was just resting there.

There was a moment where he was caught off guard, as Martin didn’t move his foot, keeping it there stubbornly; he looked up and caught Martin’s challenging gaze, and any misgivings were replaced with a smug certainty. _This_ was why he liked Martin; he was fighting him, and Douglas would be damned if he was going to lose.

So they stayed there for another half an hour, feet touching ever so slightly under the table, neither of them mentioning it as they resurrected the conversation. At one point, Douglas decided to push a little further, and slid his hand across the table to rest atop Martin’s. The Captain stuttered his words and his eyes shot down at the movement, his hand jumping, but he pursed his lips and continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

When they had left, Martin had insisted that Douglas stay in the car when they arrived at the student house; it was too strange to follow him to the door. Douglas had to agree.

“Um…this actually went quite well.” Martin noted, as he smiled thinly from the passenger seat; it was dark, so Douglas couldn’t see him properly, but he was sure that he sounded contented at least, if not a little nervous.

“It did actually, as far as dates go.” Douglas replied, smiling without a trace of smarm. Martin reacted well, nodding and inhaling deeply before speaking his next words with a fraction more confidence.

“On the subject of how dates go…they tend to end a certain way…” Martin motioned between the two of them, and Douglas’ eyebrows rose as he realised what the Captain meant; Martin’s hand was quivering ever so slightly, so he wasn’t certain about anything yet, that much was obvious, “Are we…are we going to…or do think that’s a bit…?”

“Do you want to?” Douglas replied, no nonsense, just actual cautiousness; he wasn’t sure if _he_ wanted to yet, or at all. Martin shrugged and brought his spare hand to tussle his ginger hair.

“I’m not sure – I mean, it went well – it’s just it’s still a bit weird to think of, so maybe next time?” Martin spluttered, his tone increasing in tempo as it was wont to do.

Douglas nodded in understanding.

“So there’s going to be a next time is there?” he couldn’t help but answer as such, even as Martin caught himself and tried to interject and correct his faux pas, “I suppose it might seem less weird next time.”

Martin’s mouth clapped shut, and his eyes widened in an ‘oh’ moment; he nodded quickly, eager not to backtrack even further.

“Yes, sure – of course.” Martin replied in his caricature of nonchalance, waving a hand dismissively, “So…I’ll just go now.”

Douglas felt the familiar pang of fond despair, and allowed Martin his escape.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow Martin.” He said kindly, nodding towards the passenger door to let him know that he was free to leave without backing himself into another verbal corner.

That seemed like the night was over, but as Martin was climbing from the car, and Douglas was tapping at the steering wheel after saying goodbye, he was jolted back into alertness as the passenger door slammed shut, and instead of an empty seat, he was met by the sight of Martin, once again turned to face him. He was about to ask what he was doing, but Martin raised a finger, and the expression of complete decisiveness on his face made Douglas remain silent.

“I just had a thought.” Martin explained, sounding as if he were proposing dangerous but necessary flight manoeuvres, “If we wait until next time, there’ll be all of this suspense until then – so, we could just do that now, and get it over with.”

Douglas opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it again as a new train of thought entered his mind. Well, there wasn’t really any argument against Martin’s suggestion. He traced his eyes over Martin’s determined expression and made up his mind.

“You’ll have to come to me – I’m still strapped down after all.” Douglas stated plainly; the flash of surprise, confliction, and relief, on Martin’s face was enough to reassure Douglas that he wasn’t against the idea at all.

Before he could mentally talk himself out of it, Martin had leaned across the car, and Douglas slammed his eyes shut as Martin’s lips met his, and pressed determinedly into the kiss, not pulling away at the lack of response, but rather staying still in case he had misjudged.

Douglas did the only thing that he could, and pressed back, tilting his head so that they could achieve some sort of comfortable friction as Martin began to kiss him gently again, seemingly unwilling to break away – just in case.

As one hand met Martin’s shoulder, Douglas thought to himself that this wasn’t bad…not bad at all…it had been a very long time since he had properly kissed anyone…had forgotten how good it was…and it wasn’t some stranger that he would have to awkwardly sweep away either, it was _Martin_ , he knew how to deal with Martin…and it was _very_ nice…

Then it was over, and Martin pulled away, flushed a deeper shade of red than Douglas had even seen. They had said goodnight again, made sure that there was _definitely_ going to be a next time, and then Martin had vacated the car, and Douglas had driven home.

So now Douglas was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. Things hadn’t gone badly at all. He still wasn’t sure that anything would come out of whatever was happening with Martin, he was still old and unable to provide Martin with anything that he actually wanted…but it might be nice while it lasted.

As Douglas drifted into unconsciousness, curling into the soft quilted covers, the only thing that bothered him was the residual tingling that crept up and down the veins of his arms.

OoOoOoOoO

OoOoO

O

He’s looking at a house that he doesn’t recognise, the walls painted a pale cream, the kitchen and living room curled around a set of stairs to the left of the front door. The furniture packed in is partially familiar, and partially strange and new, and allows for the rooms to seem spacious, though they are average in size.

In the corner by a large open window, sitting comfortably at an old oak desk that creates a myriad of familiar tingles, sits Martin…except, he looks older somehow. Not too old, but more lined, fuller, more content as he hums under his breath, his forehead furrowed slightly in concentration. He’s not in uniform, and on the desk in front of him is a laptop, far sleeker than any that Douglas has seen before, and beneath his hands are notepads and brochures from various places.

Light footsteps sound outside, and when the front door opens with a click, Martin stops humming as a woman, a tired but pleasant looking woman with dark hair and wide eyes…Deborah…strolls in, placing her cargo on the sofa nearest the desk where Martin is sitting.

It’s only then that Douglas notices the rings; the dull but still present rings on the left hand of both Martin and Deborah.

“I’d have thought you’d have finished that by now.” Deborah notes lightly, passing behind Martin and looping her arms around his shoulders, her hands coming to rest on his chest and her smiling lips, her warm gaze tickling his cheeks as she squeezes lovingly.

Martin’s cheeks flush a pale pink, but he grins proudly and leans back to place a soft but not brief kiss on her lips.

“Nope, I’m still going.” He says, grin never fading, “We’ve only booked a week in Cornwall, and I’m going to make sure we don’t waste a moment of it; if we decide exactly what we’re doing _now_ , then it’ll be more fun when we’re there.”

“For you maybe.” Deborah remarks with an accepting fondness, choosing to remain cuddled against him as she inspects the brochures, picking one up to peer at a little more closely, “I don’t see why we can’t take these and just decide on the day.”

“Because last time we did that we spent half the week indoors because we couldn’t agree which days were better for which activity.” Martin replies matter-of-factly; he glances at the mass that has been deposited on the sofa, but seeing no change, continues to schedule, long fingers picking through the pages stacked neatly on his desk.

Deborah sighs dramatically and she slumps downwards, her eyes never leaving Martin’s face.

“ _Fine_ , we’ll do it your way.” She concedes, placing another peck on Martin’s freckled cheek before retracting herself from him and straightening out, “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I love you too.” Martin replies, sitting back in his chair to run his eyes, burning as they are with emotion, over her form, resting finally on her face.

Deborah merely smirks and blows him a sarcastic kiss from across the room, and turns on her heel to saunter into the kitchen.

Martin settles back into his ‘work’, resuming the tumbling tune that he had been humming previously. A comfortable silence stretches out across the house, until the sound of a door slamming upstairs breaks the silence, and the pattering of feet hits the staircase.

Martin glances over his shoulder and instructs in a voice that sounds so much like his Captain voice, but more worn and tempered, “Don’t run down the stairs.”

He is ignored, as the little girl, no more than three or four years old, reaches the ground, releasing the bannister from her steely grasp. She is petite, tiny rather than tall, and her wide brown eyes and freckled cheeks are framed by wavy ginger curls that reach just below her ears. When her eyes meet Martin’s, her expression shifts into one of steely determination at being scolded however lightly; it mirrors the looks that her parents would throw at each other once upon a time across a flight-deck.

Then she opens her mouth and it is a shrill echo of Captain Crieff, with all the carelessness of First Officer Richardson, all laced into one tone.

“Mummy!” she calls, looking around the sitting room as if her mother might have been hiding under the upholstery, “Mummy!”

Deborah appears from the kitchen, a small smile curling her lips as her eyes fall upon the little girl, who for her part puts her hands on her hips as if her mother had done her a great misfortune by not being where she thought she was. This is replaced by an ecstatic smile as Deborah extends her arms and allows the girl to jump up, catching her and resting her about her waist.

“Hello Darling.” Deborah drawls, wandering back towards Martin, who looks up and takes a moment to tickle the girl’s feet, smiling and turning back to click at his laptop when she kicks unhappily; Deborah places her smallest finger under the girl’s chin, “Have you been behaving for Daddy or do we have to send you to the mines?”

“No – no mines.” The girl answers hastily, looking to Martin for the nod that verifies her truth, “I picked a place.”

“Oh yes?” Deborah inquires, glancing over the girl to raise an eyebrow meaningfully at Martin, who purses his lips sheepishly.

“She picked most of them actually,” he admits, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, and then adding in the tone of voice that he used when he was trying to be sneaky, “I’m thinning them out though  - I’m actually hoping that she’ll have forgotten by the time we go and that it won’t matter.”

“Are you being fiendish again Martin?” Deborah teases, running a hand over his shoulder, to which Martin responds by rolling his shoulders and tipping his head up to smile, but she doesn’t manage to continue, as both of their attentions are drawn to the girl, who is pulling at her mother’s collar.

“Mummy!” she is repeating, squaring her tiny jaw stubbornly, pouting as the adults only then rest their eyes on _her_.

“Yes darling?” Deborah answers with a practiced patience, swinging her child slightly, enjoying the calming motion.

The girl worries her lips between her teeth, and her eyebrows furrow, but it seems for lack of words rather than confidence.

“Can my name be Amelia?” she blurts finally, meeting Deborah’s gaze with wide and eager eyes that practically glow with decision.

While Martin snorts and looks back down at the desk, Deborah quirks an eyebrow and meets her daughter’s gaze with confusion.

“Your name’s Flora, Darling.” Deborah states wryly, glancing momentarily at Martin with something akin to doubt and suspicion, “Why would we change that to Amelia?”

“Daddy told me about a lady pilot who flew planes.” Flora explains dutifully, while Deborah splits her attention, looking between the two, “He said I might be Amelia, but you said no.”

“Well that’s not actually what I said, now is it?” Martin interjects before Deborah can question him further, or make a sarcastic comment, as her expression suggests she might; he turns in his chair and makes sure to keep one arm between himself and his wife, “I said that I had wanted to call you Amelia after Amelia Earhart, but that Mummy didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“I think that naming our daughter after a woman who went missing is about as clever as naming a removal company after a terrible pilot.” Deborah replies good-naturedly, adjusting Flora’s hold on her waist, as she addresses the girl one more, “You can change your name when you’re eighteen…for now you can stay Flora Carolyn Crieff.”

“Ok.” Flora replies, neither glumly nor too excitedly, merely with the contentment of a child receiving a degree of attention they have deemed adequate.

Deborah continues to rock and bounce Flora subtly as she watches over Martin’s shoulder, occasionally pointing out days where they could just stay in the cottage that they were renting. This doesn’t last long, as Flora is once again pulling at Deborah’s collar.

“Mummy. Mummy!” she says loudly, earning a squeeze for her trouble.

“Yes Flora.” Deborah answers patiently, adopting her patient face in preparation for much of the same behaviour.

Flora shifts in her mother’s arms, and bites at her nails for a moment before they are pulled from her lips.

“What’s baby’s name?” Flora asks; Martin gives her a strange look over his own shoulder, but Deborah beats him to it, as she strolls over to the travel chair that she had left carefully on the sofa, and uses her free hand to check on the still sleeping baby within, an unconscious smile washing onto her lips even as she answers Flora wanly.

“You _know_ baby’s name,” Deborah says, as if bemused at her child; she uses the tip of her finger to stroke her infant son’s forehead, “We called him Douglas.”

“No – other name.” Flora mutters unhappily, her mood switching like lightning as she is misunderstood; she takes a ginger curl in her fingers and begins holding it up against the dark waves of her mother’s own locks.

“Oh,” Deborah corrects herself, looking between her son and her daughter, “Arthur, baby’s name is Douglas Arthur.”

“Like Arthur?” Flora asks, her brown eyes widening as if she were being rewarded with great knowledge.

Deborah smirks and her eyebrow rises once more as she meets Martin’s equally bemused gaze.

“Funnily enough.” She drawls, leaning forward to snuggle her nose against her daughter’s. Flora puts up a minor struggle, but concedes and giggles, prompting a few snuffles from within the baby carrier.

Humming thoughtfully, Flora pats her mother’s face to get her attention; Deborah looks expectantly at the girl, her brown eyes warm.

“Mummy? What’s Verity’s name?” Flora inquires, though she doesn’t sound terribly interested.

“It’s Verity Rose, Darling, but she’s not a Crieff.” Deborah explains wanly; she stokes her daughter’s hair nonetheless.

“Verity Rose sounds like the name of a storybook detective.” Martin comments cheekily, grinning up at Deborah as she swats him over the back of the head.

“Yes, I wish you hadn’t told her that,” Deborah drawls, “now she’s determined that that’s all she ever wants to be.”

“And I shall support her in that venture.” Martin concludes, his grin still in place as he taps at his laptop.

“When’s she coming?”  Flora asks without any preamble; she does not wait for an answer, but instead leans away from her mother’s hold to try and grab at the top of Martin’s head, to which he turns and tickles her fingers with his own.

“Next week, we’ve got her for a month.” Deborah answers anyway, lower and to herself.

“Mummy?” Flora asks, her eyes darting about the room restlessly, “Why is Daddy’s plane clothes not like your plane clothes?”

Deborah lets out an ‘ _oh’_ and rolls her eyes, crossing the room and slumping into the sofa, one arm still around her daughter, the other steadying the baby carrier. Martin sits back in his chair and peers at Flora from across the room, an incredulous pinch just above his eyebrows.

“I’m sure we’ve explained this to you before.” He answers, playing at copying his daughter’s pout and smiling when she shakes her head sharply and looks away.

“I forget.” Flora mutters regretfully, though the words are half muffled by Deborah’s hair as she snuggles into the side of her neck.

“Daddy’s uniform is different from mine, because Daddy’s is from his big airline, but mine is an old one from our old airline.” Deborah explains, looking up to meet Martin’s gaze and hold back a smirk, “They used to be the same, but we had to make some changes.”

“Tell me again.” Flora demands, pulling at Deborah’s collar.

Martin shrugs, and Deborah sighs before launching into her story, beginning like a fairy tale told in the modern day.

“Well, Darling, you know that Daddy and I used to work for this little airline called MJN, with Arthur and Carolyn.” Deborah begins, and Flora nods dutifully, “We were all together, and it was very nice. I was there for a while before Daddy came, but when he did, we liked the look of each other, but we tried not to, because we were quite different.”

“I still have trouble believing that there was a time I would have walked away from you.” Martin interjects reminiscently, and Flora looks in confusion between her parents, who are smiling heatedly at each other, “I suppose it’s just lucky you didn’t give up trying to get along even when I was a complete arse.”

“You’re still one of those, and I’m still everything that you found annoying.” Deborah corrects him, taking a hand from the baby carrier for just a moment to point at him, “We’ve just fashioned those traits into something more appealing.”

“ _Mummy!”_ Flora interrupts the reply that Martin begins to provide, and Deborah swats her gently before continuing with her story.

“So, Mummy and Daddy were both pilots for the best airline in the skies, even though it was a bit rubbish really, and we went on lots of adventures together, and over time we became the best of friends, and eventually, we fell in love.” Deborah lifts the girl onto her knees so that she can talk to her upfront.

Flora’s forehead crinkles in confusion.

“My best friend’s a girl.” She says, as if this puts a stop to her mother’s story. Deborah chuckles and rolls her eyes.

“Of course _that_ was what you took from that story.” She says as if to herself.

“Well, if in twenty years you’ve fallen in love with her, I’ll be happy to walk you down the aisle.” Martin assures his daughter, and Flora smiles and nods as if this solves everything.

“To continue,” Deborah states, and Flora’s attention is riveted back to her mother, “We fell in love, and there were a few bumps along the way…a period of time where we split and he asked out a princess to make me jealous…but Daddy couldn’t keep away from me.”

“But it wasn’t at all one sided.” Martin chips in purposefully, and he stands, pushing his chair back so that he can cross the room and drop into the sofa beside Deborah, whose hand moves instinctively to steady the baby carrier, which she passes behind her daughter and places on his lap.

Martin extracts his son as Deborah continues and settles him comfortably in his arms as the boy begins to sniffle and blink awake.

“No, it wasn’t, but that doesn’t matter.” Deborah concedes, “So we stayed together, and even though Daddy got offered a job at a bigger airline, he said no, and we helped MJN last a little longer by fixing the advertising and PR side of things, and catering to a wider audience, and shifting the bank accounts-”

“Your mother’s very proud of her advertising campaign.” Martin tells Flora conspiratorially, and she giggles, shoving a hand roughly through her ginger curls.

“Yes, I am rather.” Deborah drawls, leaning into Martin’s side unconsciously, keeping her hands either side of Flora to prevent her from toppling backwards onto the floor; she smiles as she pushes on with the story, “So we kept going, and Daddy and I got married, and then not long after that, I got pregnant with you…and with one pilot down and our CEO wanting a rest, we decided to call it a day and let MJN rest in pieces.” She looks to Martin, who glances away from the baby in his arms to grin at her, his blue eyes tracing her own, “You know the rest; Daddy got a job at a big airline, _much_ closer to home than his last offer, and Arthur and I took GERTI and now use her to host birthday parties and such.”

“Hmm, it’s a good thing none of them want flights that go beyond the capabilities of one pilot and a steward.” Martin notes thoughtfully, “I’m still not sure what the CAA would say.”

“Shh…we don’t talk about them.” Deborah waves her fingers at Martin, and he bats them away. Flora watches the interaction down her nose, reaching out to try and grab at both sets of hands before giving up.

Deborah shifts on the sofa so that she is both closer to Martin, and tilted more towards him, and he compensates by moving the baby Douglas into one arm and swinging the other to hang over her shoulders, bringing them all together. Flora leans across her mother’s lap to prod at the boy, but Deborah tightens her arm around her, and Martin steadies her hand and brings it down gently to the baby’s skin.

And the picture fades and fizzes, and his vision darkens, and with a jolt, Douglas is staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, inhaling deeply as if he had been running a race or had just resurfaced after a long swim.

O

OoOoO

OoOoOoOoO

Douglas stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, clasping the covers between his fingers. It was probably a dream, but it had felt so much like the dream he had had when he had touched the device the first time.

If it was real…then…he was very proud of his doppelganger. It appeared that she had done well for herself. The niggling feeling in his gut was still there, but Douglas noticed that the shivering, the electric pinpricks that had been clawing up his limbs for the best part of a week were gone. It was like floating, only less triumphant.

Douglas sighed and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to shroud his thoughts. Maybe that was the last he would ever see of them. That was a relief...if nothing else, this last, final glimpse spelled potentially good things on the horizon for he and Martin.

So Douglas did the only thing a man could do when faced with such abject confliction; he allowed himself to go to sleep, and decide that maybe, maybe he might tell Martin tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end - I hope everyone enjoyed it.  
> As I noted on ff.net, I am thinking of writing another long one that follows Deborah and Martin from Abu Dhabi, to here, to Yverdon and onwards - it might be months before this happens (busy scheduling and all) but it is something that is probably going to happen


End file.
